


Beyond All Towers

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baby Hobbits, Gen, Healing, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Male Pregnancy, Minas Tirith, Mpreg, Rivendell | Imladris, non-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 48,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring has gone but it leaves Frodo with a parting "gift".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters and the background events to my story. They belong to JRR Tolkien, although if he could see what I have done with them he would probably put as much distance between them and himself as he possibly could.
> 
> This fic. was written for the sheer joy of doing so. I do not want to get into any discussions about the likelihood of male pregnancy. This is fantasy. Flames will be used to boil water and warm fluffy towels.
> 
> This fic does include descriptions of medical procedures regarding pregnancy and birth. You have been warned.

Frodo lowered himself into the warm water with a soft sigh, which switched to a giggle as he remembered the last time he had sighed. It had been just after second breakfast this morning and three concerned faces had turned in his direction at once, followed by a chorus of, “Are you alright, Frodo?”

He had laughed then, too. “I am perfectly well. You three are like broody hens. I’m not in pain and I’m not tired. I’m just pleasantly full. That was an excellent breakfast.”

His three friends faces clearly showed their relief.

Leaning his head against the towel, folded as a pillow across the back of the tub, Frodo closed his eyes, luxuriating in the comfort of warm water almost up to his shoulders. He did not know where they had found such a tub in Ithilien and he did not care. Pulling in a deep breath he filled his head with the scent of lavender. Aragorn had said that the oil would help to relax him. A small smile tugged at the corners of Frodo’s lips again. If he were any more relaxed at the moment he would melt into a puddle and be indistinguishable from the bath water. 

He would disappear.

Blue eyes flew open in alarm and then screwed shut again as Frodo pushed the memories down. It was gone . . . destroyed . . . and for the moment he did not want to look at the images from the last few months. 

What was it Sam had said? “Try and think of a memory of a happier day, Mr Frodo.”

A tear slid down his cheek. What memories? They had all been buried at best and torn away at worst. Those that he still had seemed to belong to another Frodo Baggins. It was like a play in which he was now the audience, rather than the player. He could not even remember when Sam had said that. When was it?

Frodo delved through the events of the past few months, trying to focus upon Sam’s words . . . Sam’s voice.

00000

Lying on his back, Frodo shut his eyes against the sun, filtering through the bracken above him. He was tired . . . more tired than he could ever remember having been in his life. He tried to remember a time when he had been even half as tired as this and rolled onto his side with a groan, trying to push away the wheel of flame that filled his mind. Not only had this thing stolen his future, but it was now plundering his past. He had become a creature existing only in this moment, hemmed in by a circle of fire that severed him from friends, future, past, love. His hand was caught up gently and Sam’s voice cut through the hiss and crackle of the fire that was turning his soul to ashes.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurting? Can I do anything for you?”

Poor Sam. He tried so hard to support his master, but Frodo knew now, all too well, the truth of the Lady’s words. “To be a Ringbearer is to be alone.” Strange that he could remember her speaking those words but could not recall the timbre of Bilbo’s voice. It seemed that the Ring burned away anything that could bring him comfort . . . leaving him only despair and fear. Frodo’s own voice was cracked and dry. The quest had robbed him even of that.

“The Ring fills my mind now, Sam. When I close my eyes it is all I see. Talk to me. Help me to push it away . . . please.” He curled up on his side, eyes still firmly closed.

“Try and think of a memory of a happier day, Mr Frodo.”

From somewhere the Ringbearer dredged up a ghostly imitation of a laugh. “I have no memories, Sam. It has taken them all. I cannot even take refuge in the knowledge that I am doing this to protect the Shire because I can no longer remember what the Shire was like.”

Sam sat at Frodo’s side and stroked the hand resting limply in his.

“Green, Mr Frodo. The Shire is green and filled with life. The plants push their roots into the rich dark earth and meadows strewn with wild flowers fill the air with a perfume so strong in the spring that it can make your head spin. And the folk have their roots in the earth too. They share the land and they share the love of it.” The young hobbit’s voice grew dreamy. “Do you remember Rose Cotton?”

Frodo opened curious eyes and was surprised to find Sam’s gaze distant, his lips bowed in a small smile. He lay still a moment and his friend continued, not even aware that Frodo was watching him. 

“She’s got hair the colour of ripe wheat and cheeks that would put a peach to shame. Her lips are the colour of a fresh cut strawberry and just as sweet. And when she dances . . .”

Frodo sat up, placing himself in front of Sam’s face, and the hazel eyes focussed upon his master’s concerned features.

“Sam . . . Do you and Rose have an understanding?” he asked, quietly.

Sam blushed and looked down at their joined hands. “There weren’t nothing formal. There wasn’t hardly time, but she said she’d wait for me.”

“Oh Sam.” Frodo tried to hold back the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would not have let you come with me if I’d known.”

“And that’s why I didn’t say nothing,” Sam replied firmly, meeting his master’s blue eyes unflinchingly. “You need me and I made my promise to Gandalf before ever Rosie spoke up. I keep my promises, Mr Frodo. My family don’t have much in the way of possessions to take a pride in but we learned to take a pride in ourselves instead. When a Gamgee gives his word there’s no going back on it. And Rosie said as she was willing to wait for me until I saw the job done.”

Wait for him? Frodo threw himself back down and clenched shut his eyes, too exhausted to argue. His dearest friend in the world had sacrificed his love and his future to care for him. Could he not see that there would be no going back from this journey? Rose Cotton would sit at her window, waiting to see her love stride down the lane . . . but he would never come. There would be only a pile of bone and homespun on some ash heap in Mordor.

Frodo had known that all chance of having a family of his own had disappeared when he took on this burden. There had been lasses a plenty interested in him in the Shire, and not just because he was the Master of Bag End and heir to Bilbo’s fortune. But Frodo had always considered that there would be time for such things. Now time had run out and that future had been seared away. There would be no Mistress Baggins and no little Frodo lad. He had accepted it, even if he did not like it. 

When Sam had made the decision to follow him at the river he had even come to uneasy terms with the thought that there would be no Sam lad either . . . no-one to carry on Sam’s loyal and loving line into the next generation. But he had never considered that there may be a lass back in the Shire, waiting for her husband to be . . . had not considered that Sam too, had consciously made that decision. 

How many more people would be hurt in seeing him through this quest?

First Gandalf . . . and then Boromir . . . his sanity in tatters . . . and what of the others? Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn. 

 

00000

Frodo pulled himself back to the present. They had all survived, except poor Boromir. He would not consider it any further today. The pain of memory was still too raw. 

The bath water was cooling and he fished around for soap and cloth, working up a good lather before washing himself. It felt so good to be clean again. He and Sam had been bathed while they lay unconscious and it was wonderful to wake to that knowledge. But there was something comforting in being able to bathe himself. It was such an ordinary thing; a task that grounded him in life once more.

He winced as the soapy cloth slipped over his pectoral muscles, finding soreness there, and looked down. The light filtering through the tent was tinged with green from the colour of the canvas but, even so, Frodo was surprised to see the dusky ring surrounding his nipples. His heart sank. 

What was wrong now? 

He had thought that when he awoke in that grove of beech trees his troubles were over but now he knew that his return to the world brought a whole new set of problems to be faced. The mental trauma was hard enough but his body kept betraying him still. He had fainted twice since that first day. Aragorn and the other healers had said it was to be expected. His injuries had been tended but he needed to regain his strength and that was the reason that his friends watched him so closely.

He sighed, and moved on to soap his arms. Perhaps the muscles of his chest were simply protesting at their abuse as he tried to breathe amongst the fiery outpourings of Mount Doom. He would ignore this new problem. Doubtless it would fade within a few days and was the least of his worries.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a happy day and yet this walk seemed to Frodo to be interminable. He had been walking or standing for hours and his body was beginning to register its protests.

He was hot and the formal clothes that Gandalf had insisted he wear were not helping matters, the high stiff collar of the shirt seeming to strangle his throat. His stomach had been aching for several days and his feet, newly healed of their burns, were especially sensitive to the heat of the pavements of Minas Tirith. In the King’s train, there was no way that Frodo could slip away so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as the procession wound its way through the streets, in the hope that their eventual destination would provide shade and a chair.

Loud cheers reverberated off the close stone walls of the surrounding buildings and the Ringbearer had to fight the urge to clap his hands over his ears. He glanced behind him to where Sam, Pippin and Merry were chattering and laughing and envied them their light-heartedness. They had all suffered injury during the quest but the effects did not seem to haunt them in the same way. Oh . . . he had heard their whimpers in the night when dreams became too dark, but their spirits seemed to rise with the sun, whereas his languished more often in the shadowed ashes of Mordor.

Behind the hobbits strode Gimli and Legolas. Two more opposites Frodo could not imagine and yet they walked side by side, the tall elf with one slender hand resting upon the dwarf’s shoulder while Gimli pointed out features of the surrounding architecture. Ahead of the Ringbearer strode the Steward, Gandalf and the High King. Sunlight fractured upon the many jewels adorning the golden crown that appeared to sit so lightly upon the dark head of Aragorn, Telcontar, Estel, Isildur’s Heir, Strider. But Frodo had felt the weight of that diadem when he had carried it to Gandalf and knew that his friend felt it too.

The avenues grew wider as they processed through the different levels of the city, moving ever upward towards the palace. Frodo had hoped that this would mean there was more air but the crowds simply grew thicker and the sun beat down more harshly as they left the immediate shadow of the buildings.

Frodo’s stomach was feeling heavy and bloated and he wished he had eaten less at second breakfast, hoping that the discomfort did not presage an urgent need to visit the privy. The roar of the crowds began to buzz uncomfortably in his ears and the sun grew brighter. He strained to take deeper breaths as spots began to float before his eyes but his shirt felt as though it had been forged of iron instead of silk.

With a growing dread he recognised the symptoms at last when he felt bile rising in his throat. He was going to faint. He was right in the centre of a procession, everyone was staring at the Ringbearer, and he was going to faint. Frodo turned.

“Sam . . .” He had been going to ask his friend for an arm to lean on but his feet chose that moment to step upon a loose cobble and before he knew what was happening his back hit the ground, forcing the remaining air from his lungs and plunging him into darkness.

His next awareness was of floating. Prising open heavy eyelids, he swallowed against a feeling of nausea and found himself squinting up at Legolas’ face. The elf’s finely chiselled features smiled down at him.

“Just a little while longer and you will be in the shade, Frodo. Rest now.”

The hobbit needed no further prompting and closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the elf’s soft suede tunic. He was gratefully aware that someone had loosened his own shirt and tunic and the roar of the crowds was fading behind him. The sun had lost none of its fire but, cradled in Legolas’ arms, he felt cooler somehow and he accepted that comfort willingly.

Suddenly the noise of the crowds was shut off completely, to be replaced by soft whispers and the cool shade of a building. Chancing a deeper breath, Frodo smelled herbs and then he was lowered onto something that yielded deliciously to his body. A pillow was tucked beneath his head and more beneath his knees and he sighed in relief as a cool damp cloth was laid over his eyes, only vaguely aware that his clothes were being removed prior to being draped in a soft sheet.

A large hand slipped beneath his head and the rim of a cup touched his lips.

“Sip slowly, Master Hobbit.”

Frodo parted his lips obediently and tasted. It was cool water, sweetened with honey and slightly salty . . . a strange combination but curiously refreshing and he drained the cup steadily.

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered as his head was returned to the soft support of the pillow.

“You are very welcome. How are you feeling now?”

With the cloth over his eyes Frodo could not see the owner of the soft voice but there was something soothing in its tone and he did not flinch when he felt gentle fingers resting over the pulse in his right wrist.

“Much better, thank you. I feel so silly, fainting like that.”

The compress was removed and Frodo opened his eyes to seek out his carer, a man, in the pale grey garb of a healer. Wringing out the cloth in a basin of mint scented water, he draped its cool weight on Frodo’s brow, leaving his eyes uncovered this time. Clear grey eyes met his and the hobbit was reminded of Aragorn.

“I am Master Healer Aldern. Will you allow me to examine you?” he asked, folding his arms.

Something within Frodo balked at the suggestion. He did now want to be examined. It was not that he did not trust this kindly man but . . . 

“I . . . I only . . . fainted. It was the heat . . . I think . . . and I have not been . . . well.” Something teased at his memory . . . the face of a tiny babe . . . bright blue eyes vaguely focussed. Frodo buried the image firmly, bringing his focus back on Aldern.

The silver grey eyes caught and held him. “If your companions had not told me of your previous illness I would be inclined to agree with you that it was only the heat and the strain of the day. But I think it would be well to ensure that there is no underlying problem and the King was most specific in his instructions. You are to rest here until he can visit you this evening.”

A slight movement beyond the healer alerted him to the presence of Legolas and Sam in the doorway. Frodo rubbed his aching stomach absently. His friends would probably dog his footsteps forever more if he did not submit and put their minds at rest.

“Very well.”

Aldern was thorough but gentle and Frodo found himself relaxing as the practised hands touched and moved him. The only time, in fact, that he was caused any discomfort was when Aldern pressed upon Frodo’s chest.

Although there was no change in facial expression, the healer paused for a moment before palpating the flesh about Frodo’s nipples and then moving down to the small, flat stomach. There was another pause and Frodo began to feel uneasy once more, wishing that this could be over.

“Would you bend your knees onto your stomach, please?”

Aldern took Frodo’s ankles between the fingers of one large hand and helped his patient assume the requested position. Frodo squirmed a little and felt himself beginning to blush when fingers began to examine the area between his scrotum and back passage, hissing in alarm when Aldern encountered a sore spot.

“Thank you, Master Frodo.” 

Aldern lowered his patient’s legs and re-arranged the sheet to cover him once more, before pulling up a stool and settling at the bedside.

“Were you already aware of the tenderness in your chest and lower regions?”

Frodo bit his lip. “The chest . . . yes. I . . . I hadn’t noticed the . . . the other,” he stammered, feeling the blush build.

“When dealing with hobbit physiology I have only my experience with Master Brandybuck to call upon. From what I have observed, your folk appear to be anatomically the same as men, but for your feet and stature.” He paused and Frodo swallowed in a dry throat before nodding agreement.

“Do I take it, then, that it is usual for the females of your people to bear the children?” Aldern asked, watching his charge intently.

Frodo glanced towards the open doorway once more, where Sam and Legolas still hovered silently. Noting Frodo’s hesitation, Aldern rose without comment and closed the door, before returning to his seat.

“Any discussion between us will be repeated to no-one, unless you give me your permission.”

Frodo swallowed once more, desperately trying to moisten his throat, and Aldern handed him a cup of plain water, arranging some more pillows so that his patient was semi-reclining. The healer waited for his reply as the water was sipped gratefully but when Frodo spoke next his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“It is always the lasses that bear the children.”

Aldern frowned at last, puzzlement finally registering on his features. “Then I am temporarily at a loss. All your symptoms would suggest that you are in the early stages of pregnancy. You would even appear to be developing a birth canal. It seems I will need to conduct a more thorough examination.” He made to rise but Frodo grabbed his wrist, staying him.

“No. I . . . I think your . . . diagnosis may be . . . correct. Please . . . when will the King be free?”

“His message said that he would visit you this evening. But why do you believe that you could be with child? You have just told me that this is not the way of your people.”

Frodo handed back the cup, suddenly feeling quite faint again. “There are . . . there are . . . special circumstances. Please . . . do not ask . . . any more.” He could feel his chin beginning to quiver and his eyes were hot with mounting tears.

Aldern decided to bide his time and removed the extra pillows. “I think perhaps you should rest now. Would you like someone to stay with you?”

“No thank you. No . . . wait . . . perhaps Sam. If he would.”

Aldern unfolded a light blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over him, nodding in approval as Frodo rolled onto his side and curled up, closing deep blue eyes. He drew the curtains to dim the room and placed a small bell on the bedside table.

“I will bring the King to you as soon as he arrives and someone will come with a bowl of light broth in a little while. You must drink it all. If you need anything else please do not hesitate to ring the bell.”

His instructions were met with a small nod and he did not pursue the matter further when he saw tears beginning to track down Frodo’s cheeks. Aldern left, closing the door softly behind him.

When Sam slipped in a little while later if was to find that his master had cried himself into exhausted slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr Frodo? Frodo? Wake up sir.” Sam’s whisper was accompanied at last by a gentle touch on his shoulder and Frodo cracked open sleep fogged eyes, squinting against the headache that pounded at him mercilessly.

“What time is it, Sam?” Frodo murmured as he levered himself into a sitting position, wincing at the additional throbbing in his head. Sam arranged pillows behind him and draped a woollen shawl about his shoulders against the cooler evening air.

“It’s nigh on supper time, sir. And the King is here to see you.”

Frodo had vague recollections of Sam feeding him broth and some tea but he had been so tired that he had been asleep again before he had reached the bottom of the cup. Once or twice he thought he remembered Aldern’s face too but he could not be sure of that for dreaming and waking seemed to flow together. Sam handed him a cup of steaming liquid just as the door opened to admit the healer, followed by Aragorn.

“Good evening, Frodo. I am so sorry that I could not come to see you earlier. As someone used to travelling alone I am finding it a little strange that I am now surrounded by people on all sides. I broke away as soon as I could.”

Frodo sipped and found the tea to be a sweet and fruity concoction, flavoured with fresh ginger. “I understand, Your Maj . .” He was cut off by a wave of the King’s hand.

“I am Aragorn to you. You need not bow to me for it was by your efforts that I assumed the throne.” Before Frodo could protest any further, Aragorn laid a gentle hand upon his brow and, satisfied that there was no fever, settled himself upon the stool at the side of the bed.

“I have asked Master Healer Aldern to tell me what ails you but he says that he cannot do so without your permission.”

Frodo glanced up at the slender healer gratefully. Aldern inclined his head, his voice carefully modulated to be heard only by those within the room. “If you wish to be alone with the King I will wait outside.”

Tea sloshed over Frodo’s hand as he leaned forward in his haste to keep Aldern and Sam had to rescue the cup and mop up. Even Frodo heard the edge of panic in his own voice, as he called out, “No. No. Please stay.” 

Aldern remained at the foot of the bed and folded his arms while Sam tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Frodo smiled at his friend. “Please stay too, Sam.”

“Very well Frodo. We are all here and I, for one, am feeling curious and more than a little worried. Would somebody tell me what is wrong?” Aragorn pleaded.

Swallowing in a suddenly dry mouth, Frodo found that he did not know where to begin and he glanced across at Aldern for support. The healer smiled, his voice sure and calm.

“Perhaps you should tell the King of your examination and then your reasons for believing my suggestion to be correct?” he coaxed.

Somehow, the suggestion did not make Frodo’s decision any easier. This was so personal. He would have to bear his innermost soul. Perhaps that was the purpose behind the whole thing . . . to leave him nothing that was his and his alone . . . to rip open his soul and strew the stinking entrails in the unforgiving sun for all to see. 

Frodo looked down at his fingers, where they worried at a stray thread on the edge of the blanket. A large hand came to rest upon his, stilling his movements. Aragorn’s voice was worried. “Frodo? Please tell me what troubles you and I will do all within my power to help.”

Sam’s voice was added to that of the man. “Please, Mr Frodo. Strider is the King now. That’s an awful lot of power to help with.”

“Oh Sam. I wish that he could help in this, but I think this is beyond even a King,” Frodo replied, sadly. He worked his hand free of Aragorn’s and rubbed his eyes, trying to knuckle away the headache and the tears that he could feel building there.

“We will never know unless you tell me,” Aragorn coaxed quietly.

Frodo took as deep a breath as he could and let it out in a rush of words before his mind could stop it. “I think I may be with child and Aldern’s examination seems to support my fear.” He swallowed hard to prevent the meagre contents of his stomach from chasing the words out of his mouth. Although he had shut his eyes, the Ringbearer could feel those of the other’s in the room boring into his face.

There was a long silence, finally broken by Aragorn. “Frodo. You are a male hobbit. I have travelled with you for many weeks and there is little that you were able to hide from me in your illness after Weathertop. I know enough about hobbit anatomy from tending you and from my foster father’s tuition to know that you do not have the organs required to support a child within your body.”

Opening his eyes, Frodo met those of the King. “I never told you what went through my mind when . . . when I . . . put on the Ring . . . when . . . when I . . . claimed . . . it. I never told you what it offered that . . . that I could not . . . refuse. What I most wanted. I never even told Sam.” He wanted to swallow but his throat would not co-operate and Aldern handed him a cup. Frodo took a sip. It was the same honeyed water he had been given upon his arrival and it went down smoothly, coating and easing his dry throat.

“And I would never press you on that matter. The Ring made many promises, all of them seemingly good and all of them warped and evil. It is a thing personal to you and I know that you cherish your privacy,” Aragorn replied. “But I do not see how that bears on your present assertion.”

Frodo turned to Sam, who was standing uncertainly at the bedside. “Dear Sam. I hope that what I am about to say will not sully our friendship, for I hold your companionship more dear than I can ever tell you.”

“Nothing you could ever say would make me turn away from you, Frodo. You should know that by now if you know nothin’ else,” Sam vowed, catching his master’s hand in his.

Frodo allowed himself a weak smile. “Do you remember that morning in Ithilien? Not long before Captain Faramir caught us? You were talking about the Shire and Rose Cotton.”

Sam began to pink, the colour rising from his neck to his ears. “You shouldn’t pay too much attention to that. I was trying to make you feel better.”

“Dear Sam. Do you think I don’t know when you’re in love? Although it took me a while to see it, I grant you. Your face changes completely when you so much as say her name. I think it was on that morning that I realised what I had truly lost to the quest . . . and I was . . . jealous.”

“Oh Frodo. You gave up so much. We had no right to ask it of you,” Aragorn sighed.

“You did not ask it of me. I volunteered and I blame no-one for my plight but myself.” Frodo replied firmly.

Sam interrupted. “But what’s that got to do with you feeling poorly now?”

Frodo took a deep breath. “When you spoke about Rose I suddenly realised what I had lost. At first I was jealous . . . please forgive me for that Sam? And then I realised that you were going to lose it too. You should marry Rose Cotton and have lots of little Rosie girls and Sam lads, and until I woke up in Ithilien afterwards, I thought you would never have that opportunity. And it occurred to me, that I had always imagined Bag End filled with children but thought that there would be plenty of time for such things. As we drew closer to Mount Doom I realised that my dreams would never come true. There would be no Mistress Baggins and no little Frodo lad.” His voice faded and Aldern coaxed him to take another sip from the cup.

All within the small room were now silent, waiting for Frodo to continue. He took another shuddering breath.

“When I stood on the brink I could see nothing but the Ring. It no longer whispered. It drowned out all other sound, all other thought.” Tears began to trickle down his cheeks unheeded

“I tried so hard to resist it but then . . . then . . .” Frodo sobbed and Sam took his hand between both of his. Aldern moved to a side table and returned with a bottle, adding a few drops of pale liquid to Frodo’s drink and encouraging him to sip again. Frodo was hardly aware of the action.

“What did it promise you, Frodo?” asked Aragorn with growing awareness.

The once Ringbearer turned tear filled eyes upon the once ranger. “It showed me a vision of a babe. He had my dark hair and blue eyes. It was my child, Aragorn. I saw the Ring offering me a family, home, wife, love and a future; all that I had lost.”

Aldern coaxed him to take a few more sips of the soothing drink and Frodo leaned back into his pillows, tears flowing in earnest now.

“I said, “Yes”. I wanted it so badly to be normal; to go back to the Shire and be an ordinary hobbit with wife and children and, one day, grandchildren.” Sobs began to shake him and tears were sliding down Sam’s face too. “I should have known better. Everyone warned me that it twisted all its promises. It showed me a babe. It did not show me a wife. Then there was Gollum, and the Ring was gone and I hoped . . . oh how I hoped . . . that it would not . . . could not come true. But . . .”

Sam caught the cup as Frodo nearly dropped it, curled up onto his side, buried his face in his hands and sobbed violently. Aragorn reached out at once to rub the shaking shoulders and Aldern moved in to remove pillows and settle his patient under the blanket.

Frodo was aware of little of this as whatever had been added to his cup began to take effect. The headache that had plagued him since waking was fading, as was everything else . . . light . . . sound . . . emotion. Try as he may, he could keep his eyes open no longer and his sobs faded to soft hitches as the sedative and Aragorn’s gentle stroking overtook him, tugging him gently down into oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

Frodo shifted slightly in his warm nest but tried to remain upon the shores of wakefulness, not wanting to touch the beach. He did not want to wake up for he was safe and comfortable here, buoyed upon sleep’s surface. But life’s currents began to tug at his consciousness.

His body registered that it lay upon a soft feather mattress, his head cradled in pillows. He was wearing a loose linen shirt and was draped warmly in light blankets. Sunlight caressed his drowsy eyelids and noises drifted into his ears and coalesced slowly in his mind . . . the rumble of wheels and clip of hooves on cobbles, distant voices hawking wares, birdsong. He realised that he could deny the world no longer. These were not the sounds that normally filtered into his bedroom at Bag End. He tried to swim back to the deeper waters of sleep but the tide pushed him forward inexorably to land upon life’s shifting and uncertain sands. Then someone threw him a lifeline . . . familiar whispering nearby.

“I’ve brought his breakfast. Is he awake yet?” Sam’s light notes were answered by Gandalf’s strong but life-worn voice.

“He has been drifting for some time but I think he is awake now.”

Frodo sighed, opening his eyes, and was washed up in a tangle of limbs among the jetsam of his life. Blinking uncertainly, it took him a moment to establish where he was. They must have moved him while he slept. He recognised his small bedroom in the house he and the other hobbits shared with Gandalf in Minas Tirith. He was back in his living nightmare.

Frodo squeezed his eyes closed and turned his face into the pillow, curling tighter but large hands folded back the blankets and slipped beneath his shoulders, lifting him and then leaning him into the support of a pile of cushions. He had not the inclination to resist.

“Good morning, Mr Frodo. I thought as how you’d like first breakfast in bed today.”

About to protest that he was not hungry, Frodo opened his eyes and sighed again as Sam placed a tray in his lap. He peered down at a small dish of smooth oatmeal, swirled with cream and fragrant honey and a large cup of cambric tea. There was also a small glass of some dark brown liquid and he wrinkled his nose against the smell as Sam held it out to him.

His friend’s tone was apologetic. “Master Aldern said you were to have a glass of this every morning. It’s only two good swallows and I’ve brought you plenty of tea to wash it down.”

Frodo drew back from the obnoxious smell, seeking out Gandalf’s support. The wizard sat in a chair at the other side of the over-large bed and his expression offered no relief as he stared at the once-Ringbearer from beneath heavy white brows. He said nothing and Sam continued to plead with his master.

“Come on now, Mr Frodo. It’s only a tonic. Master Aldern says you need it if . . . if your body’s going to . . . to grow that . . .” His words tailed off and Frodo could see a flush creep up Sam’s neck.

“Baby, Sam. I think it’s a . . . baby.” He took the glass, downing the contents with a grimace and following it with a long swig of tea. The Ring had promised him a baby and if he was to go through with this he had to continue to hope that this much at least, was true to the vision. Frodo looked down at his flat stomach and wondered.

Without further ado, Gandalf rose and crossed to the door. “I think it is time to admit your guest. I asked Master Legolas if he would visit you this morning.”

Frodo set down his cup in alarm. “Please, Gandalf. I don’t . . . please . . . I don’t want to see anyone.”

The wizard did not pause, however, and opened the door, beckoning the elven Prince of Mirkwood into the room. From his sombre expression Frodo knew that he had been told what ailed his friend and wondered just how many people were now privy to his plight. Aldern had sworn himself to silence but Sam and Aragorn had made no such promise. Frodo once more wished that Mount Doom had swallowed him along with the Ring.

Legolas flitted across the room, his feet seeming to float half an inch above the floor and his soft loose archer’s clothing making not a whisper of sound.

“Good morning, Frodo. I hope you are feeling a little better today.” He paused at the bedside, eyes the colour of fresh spring skies and the air about him charged with sunlight.

Frodo did not know how best to answer that question. Did he feel better? He did not feel dizzy or sick and his headache had gone. But . . . better? He was a male hobbit, pregnant with a baby given him by Sauron’s Ring. He took a sip of the light, milky tea as he considered.

“I am . . . well enough. Thank you, Legolas.”

At the other side of the bed Gandalf cleared his throat. “I have asked Legolas here in order to answer your question, Frodo.”

The hobbit turned to him in query. “What question?”

Gandalf settled himself in his chair and adjusted his flowing snow-white robes. The fabric glowed in the early sun, pouring through the window, making Frodo blink.

“Elves have senses not available to mortals and Legolas is the only elf in Minas Tirith at present.” Gandalf replied, matter-of-factly. “You are worried about the nature of the child that you carry within you because of the manner of its conception. Am I correct?” 

Frodo lowered his cup. No longer interested in food or drink. Not that he had been particularly interested to begin with, he reflected ruefully. His voice cracked as he answered the wizard. 

“Yes.”

Legolas handed off Frodo’s tray to Sam and settled himself upon the edge of the bed, facing the trembling hobbit. He gathered Frodo’s hands into his own and his voice fell in the room like fresh spring rain.

“All elves are linked to the Great Song that encompasses Middle earth. We can hear the melody that is played within each heart . . . and we can tell when it has been written in a minor key. Will you allow me to listen to the song of your child?”

Frodo swallowed in a very dry throat. Did he want to know? What would he do if the song were in a . . . minor key? Would it be better to live in hope, rather than know the worst? And yet, if it were a normal child would that not be reason for celebration? It would be a pity to miss such joy. The questions whirled round and round in his mind and the more he considered the faster they spun. Could he spend the next nine months in this turmoil? He looked into those clear eyes, so full of compassion.

“Yes please.”

With a slight squeeze of re-assurance the elf lowered Frodo’s hands to the coverlet and brought his own to rest lightly upon the hobbit’s abdomen. Frodo could not bear to look down and, instead, stared into his companion’s face. He had trusted Legolas with his life on more than one occasion. He could trust him again.

Clear eyes grew distant and Legolas tilted his head to one side, listening to a symphony that no other in the room was privy to. Frodo searched the fair features, waiting for the first sign that the elf had heard the tiny song that whispered beneath his long cool fingers.

Legolas’ focus shortened and he met Frodo’s frightened gaze. A gentle smile turned the corners of his mouth as he moved his hands away from the small belly.

“I sense nothing amiss with your child, Frodo. His song is as pure and clear as a mountain spring at the birthing of the world.”

Frodo buried his head in his hands and wept.

 

CONT


	5. Chapter 5

Frodo fastened the last button on his braces and Aragorn held his weskit while he slid in his arms. Settling in a chair at the other side of the empty hearth, the hobbit tried to regain control of himself.

In the month since the coronation either Aragorn or Aldern had examined him every week. If he was honest, Frodo preferred it when the Master Healer undertook the intimate and delicate task. The still-young hobbit found it difficult to withhold his blushes when his friend performed the examination, even though Aragorn’s behaviour was as professional in every way as that of Aldern. It felt too personal, somehow, when someone he knew so well touched him.

These examinations had become more embarrassing as time went on and Frodo had squeaked in alarm and tried to squirm away today when he had felt Aragorn insert a gentle finger into a newly formed opening in his lower regions that no male hobbit should have.

Now he brushed away a tear and clasped his hands somewhat nervously in his lap, before looking across at the King expectantly.

“Is everything alright?”

Aragorn settled back in his chair. “I can hear the child’s heartbeat now and it sounds strong and steady.”

Frodo glanced down at his still flat abdomen and swallowed. A heartbeat. The babe was still so tiny that it did not even swell his belly and yet it had a heartbeat. No . . . he corrected himself . . . “he” had a heartbeat. He smiled and placed a hand upon his stomach, wishing that he too could hear or feel that beat.

“And what of me?” he asked, nervously. “Aragorn, how will I birth this child?”

His friend frowned and shook his head in wonder. “It would seem that your body is taking care of that. You felt it earlier. You appear to be growing a birth canal. Aldern and I have no idea what is happening inside but there is definitely a passage forming. Even if there were not, however, there are ways to extract the child if necessary.”

Frodo swallowed hard. He had heard of such procedures but in the Shire they had only been performed if the mother was no longer breathing. He tried to distract himself from such thoughts.

“What is causing this strange metallic taste in my mouth all the time?”

Aragorn chuckled. “That one had me bothered until Master Aldern consulted with one of the midwifes attending the Houses of Healing. Apparently, that taste is common in those who are with child. It will pass within a few weeks, along with the lethargy and nausea you have also been experiencing.”

The mere mention of the word, “nausea” made Frodo’s stomach roll and he swallowed determinedly. He wished he knew why everyone referred to it as morning sickness for he seemed to suffer it at all hours of the day, only gaining relief when he slept . . . which was all too often in his opinion. It had reached the point where he was afraid to sit still for too long for he would suddenly find himself being roused by Sam some time later, having dozed off. 

Sam had even joked about it. “I reckon you could sleep on a clothes line, Mr Frodo.”

“Unfortunately, the emotional swings will continue,” Aragorn added and Frodo felt himself colouring once more.

The weather had been somewhat sultry of late and the King had arrived in the middle of a thunderstorm this morning. He had entered Frodo’s room, only to be nearly bowled over by the sudden attachment to his legs of a sobbing and trembling hobbit. It had taken him several heartbeats to realise that this was the same hobbit that had travelled with him stoically to Rivendell and on through Moria. Once the man had established that it was only the thunder that had so terrified Frodo he had gathered him up and sat upon the edge of the bed with him, rubbing his back until the storm, both without and within, had abated.

“I’m sorry,” Frodo mumbled. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been frightened of storms before.”

“I only wish that all your worries were solved as easily,” the man replied.

Frodo stared into the empty grate of the hearth. If only. He let his hand rest upon his belly and rubbed his thumb across it unconsciously. There were so many worries.

He glanced down, past the slight swelling of his chest and wondered what he would look like in a few months time. Would he be sitting in this very chair, looking down at a large round belly? Would he be able to even see that belly for the breasts that he also appeared to be growing? What other changes would be wrought? Would there come a point where he would be afraid to leave the house? People would surely point and stare.

Would his body be able to nourish the child forming within it? Would Frodo survive the experience? How would he be delivered if he came to term and would Frodo be able to care for him afterwards? The two of them would need looking after. Where would they live? The Shire? He could imagine the talk in the Green Dragon if Frodo Baggins returned with a nursing child. He bit back a giggle. Mad Baggins indeed. Then he sobered.

The Ring had been wholly evil. Legolas had assured him that the babe was normal so what other punishment could the One Ring heap upon Frodo? He felt a strong rush of protectiveness wash through him for the innocent life he harboured.

“Aragorn, will you promise me something?”

The King inclined his dark head, the gold of his filet catching a warm shaft of sunlight that was now breaking through the clouds outside. “If it is within my power, Frodo. What do you wish me to promise?”

“If it comes to it . . . if it is one or the other . . . please promise that you will give him a chance. My time is past. I have been wounded by knife, sting and tooth and I know that I will never be as I was. He is new and whole, with the opportunity of a lifetime of happiness before him.”

Aragorn reached out and laid his hand over Frodo’s. “That decision may not be in my hands and . . . besides . . . this may be the opportunity of a new life for both of you. Perhaps that is why you have been given this gift.”

Frodo shook his head. “The Ring would not be so kind.”

“Gandalf says that there are many powers at work in this world and not all of them are evil.” Warm fingers touched the hobbit’s chin and lifted his face so that his eyes were caught and held by the King’s. 

“Elrond thought you had been chosen for the task of Ringbearer and I do not believe that he meant that you had been chosen by evil. You came through more suffering than anyone could have imagined possible. Many times you could have died and yet, each time, you were saved. I cannot believe that the power that has protected you thus far would abandon you now.”

Something that had bound up Frodo’s heart for so many weeks slowly melted away and he took a deep breath, smiling up into the kindly face before him. Perhaps all would be well, after all.

Suddenly the door opened behind him and Sam entered, carrying a large tray. 

“Here we are. Luncheon. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing it for two because I overheard Mr Strider . . . er . . . His Majesty saying that he hadn’t eaten yet today.”

As he spoke he uncovered the tray to reveal all manner of goodies. The removal of the covering cloth, however, released the savoury smells too and two sets of concerned eyes flicked to Frodo as he groaned and rose to leave hurriedly.

Aragorn chuckled. “I hope you have some plain crackers on that tray Sam. I do not think that our parent-to-be is quite up to sausages and cabbage at the moment.”

“Oh yes, sir. There’s always plain crackers on the tray nowadays . . . although I keep hoping. It’s not right for a hobbit not to eat.”

Aragorn merely helped himself to a plate. “I shouldn’t worry about it too much, Sam. I expect he’ll soon be eating for two.” The thought made him pause. 

Eating for two hobbits? When would Frodo find the time for anything else?


	6. Chapter 6

(This chapter contains paraphrases and quotes from Tolkien.)

“Oh, come on Frodo. How long does it take you to change?” called Pippin.

Frodo chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered himself in the mirror. Although he was not yet noticeably “with child” his stomach was a little fuller than was it’s custom and he had needed to improvise with his only suit of formal court clothing. The lacings on the heavily embroidered jerkin allowed some leeway but the breeches would simply not fasten. He had managed to pull them together far enough for decency and then secured them with a piece of cord. Fortunately the arrangement would be hidden as the waist was beneath the hem of his jerkin. 

He turned side-on to the mirror and took a deep breath, testing. The breaches held but his chest hurt a little. Fortunately, the fabric of the jerkin was strong enough to flatten his small breasts but he hoped he did not have to wear this outfit for too long. He shook his head in despair. Whatever was he going to wear when he got . . . bigger?

“Frodo! Come on! Gandalf is waiting,” the small knight of Gondor called in exasperation.

The Ringbearer pulled on his cloak and hurried to the door. “I’m sorry, Pippin. I’m not used to these strange fastenings.”

Pippin only took his elbow and practically ran him out of the house and through the streets. They were thronged with people but everyone recognised the two diminutive figures and made way for them as they hurried down the various levels of the city. Frodo had not the breath to question Pippin further on the way but as soon as they came to a halt at Gandalf’s side he inhaled deeply. 

“What is going on? Why is everyone in formal attire? What are we waiting for?”

The clear ringing of trumpets drowned out any reply that Pippin was about to make. The newly rebuilt outer gates of the city swung slowly open, the gleaming metal of their decoration catching the last copper glow of the sun as it dipped behind the mountain.

An awed silence fell upon the crowds assembled as, against the growing dark of the sky, sprinkled with early stars, appeared a large riding of fair folk. Frodo tasted a new sweetness in the summer air as they entered the city, lead by Elrond’s tall, raven-haired sons carrying a banner of silver. Behind them were others of Rivendell’s household and Glorfindel bowed slightly to the hobbits as he rode by on Asfaloth.

Behind them rode Galadriel and Celeborn, riding upon tall white steeds and with them many of their people, the grey of their mantles making them appear as an early evening mist. Frodo had been surprised not to see Lord Elrond amongst those from Imladris and now he saw why.

At the very end of the train of elven folk came Master Elrond, mighty among Elves and Men, and beside him, upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen. Suddenly Frodo understood why Gandalf had not let them return to the Shire before. He seemed to be in a beautiful dream and his voice sounded distant, even to him.

“At last I understand why we have waited! This is the ending. Now not day only shall be loved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!”

Frodo turned to watch as they dismounted and Elrond laid the hand of his daughter in the hand of the King. The shadows which he had felt threatening at his back only minutes before were now welcoming and soft and filled with starlight and song. 

He and the other hobbits fell in behind the King and his soon-to-be Queen and Elrond moved to walk behind them with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn. Frodo hesitated, his heart jumping as keen grey eyes fell upon him and a slight frown touched Lord Elrond’s brow, but then the eyes moved on. They resumed their procession to the High City, where they were privileged to watch the wedding of Arwen Undomiel and Aragorn the King Ellessar in the city of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer.

The feasting and celebration went on long into the night, although the King sent word to Frodo that he could be excused whenever he wished, knowing that he was, as yet, still sensitive to the smell of strong foods. For his part, Frodo ate little but sat enraptured by the company of such fair folk. Their voices, even when not singing, soothed and captivated him much as they had done in the Hall of Fire at Rivendell and he would have nodded off if Sam had not nudged him and helped him from the table.

As the two hobbits left by a side door Frodo turned back to drink in this spectacle, engraving it upon his memory.

The hall was lit with many tapers but their golden glow mingled with the starlight of the elven folk, bathing the whole room in a shimmering radiance. On a dais at the end of the hall sat the King and his new Queen and to either side of them were the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond. The rest of the table was filled with other high folk but it was Elrond that Frodo found his eyes resting upon and the Lord’s silvered gaze met and held his, searching Frodo as he had at the end of that fateful council meeting so many months ago. For long moments he could not move and then Elrond turned to answer a question from Galadriel and Frodo used the opportunity to escape.

00000

Frodo had always liked that all too brief period between sleeping and waking. When he was younger it had presaged a day to be filled with new delights and adventures . . . a time to savour the smells and sounds of home and ground himself before setting out upon the open path that stretched before him. Later it had become a time of retreat. It was a comfortable place of peace and calm before staggering off into the darkness once more. Now . . . what was it now?

He lay still, trying to place himself upon the road of his life. He was lying upon a low couch that Sam and Merry had wrestled out of the house and placed under the shade of a tree in the small garden. Frodo could hear the leaves above him stirring gently in a stray breeze as they sheltered him from the full glare of the summer sun. Only his feet lay fully exposed to the golden light and he wiggled his toes experimentally, delighting in the warm caress.

The sounds of the city beyond did not penetrate the high stone walls of the small garden and all he could hear was the rustle of leaves, the drone of many bees in the clover around him and the laughter of Sam and Pippin drifting from the kitchen behind him.

Frodo stretched languorously, feeling like a fat house cat on a sunny doorstep, and took a deep breath. Clover . . . roses . . . warm dusty stone . . . fresh baked apple pie . . . and another smell, woody and warm. He tried to place it but all that came to mind was Rivendell. It had been an occasion like this. He had been on the borders of wakefulness and the cool brush of fingers at his wrist had accompanied the scent. He had felt strangely comforted by it. Then he had surfaced further into the world and touch and scent had disappeared. 

He opened sleepy blue eyes, half expecting the smell to fade again but this time it lingered. He was lying on his right side and all he could see was the rough bark of the tree trunk and the bright splash of flowers in the borders beyond. He stretched and rolled over, and then scrambled upward, his eyes wide.

“Lord Elrond!”

Lord Elrond of Imladris sat cross-legged upon the grass before him, his formal robe folded at his side. There was an amused twinkle in the pale grey eyes and he waved Frodo to stillness when the hobbit would have scrambled to his feet.

“Peace, Little One.”

The words were not a command but Frodo felt himself calmed at once. The elf rose fluidly and began to arrange cushions at one end of the couch, then he lifted Frodo’s feet from the ground and pressed him back into the pillows, before returning to sit upon the grass again. The elf’s soft voice seemed to blend with the whisper of the leaves.

“Your sleep is much more peaceful than when last I sat vigil at your couch. And yet I sense that there is still some disquiet in your fea. Your journey has not left you untouched in mind . . . and body.” The final words were accompanied by a slight lift of the finely arched brows and Frodo swallowed reflexively in a throat suddenly parched.

Did Elrond know about the child? Or was he just referring to the physical and mental injuries caused by the journey to Mount Doom? If he knew about the babe how could Frodo face such a perfect being? How could he bear to live every day knowing that the evidence of his failure grew inside him and that the Lord of Imladris knew his shame? He swallowed again before speaking.

“I . . . it was a hard journey. But Aragorn . . . the King . . . has helped me in my recovery.”

The grey eyes seemed to bore deep into his soul. “Your body carries many wounds. Some will heal, with time, and others . . . others may heal but they will take longer for their power was not just to harm your flesh but your fea as well.” Elrond paused a moment and his eyes drifted down to rest upon Frodo’s waist. “And your body carries something else. New life.”

Frodo slid his hands over his belly, as though to hide its contents from those eyes. “I am sorry, Lord Elrond. You placed a great trust in me and at the end I failed.” He could feel the prick of tears and could no longer bear to look into that young and ancient face.

“You did not fail, Ringbearer. You brought the evil to the Cracks of Doom and it was destroyed.”

Frodo could hardly speak beyond the lump in his throat. “But I . . . I claimed it. I accepted its promise and this . . .” He pressed his stomach. “This is my punishment.”

He looked up in astonishment at Elrond’s next words. “You misunderstand me, Frodo. When I spoke of new life I meant just that. The babe that you carry will mean a new life for you . . . a fresh beginning. Your child may have been conceived in a moment of evil but that is not what I sense now. Your road to delivery of this new life will not be easy but it will bring about great healing for you. The life growing within you is something to be celebrated, not feared.”

Leaning back into his cushions, Frodo closed his eyes and let the silent tears of relief slide down his face.

For several minutes the elven healer let him recover. “Will you birth your child in Minas Tirith or do you intend to return to your beloved Shire?”

Grateful for the return of the conversation to such practical matters Frodo fished out a hanky to wipe away the tears and blow his nose.

“I would love to raise a child in the Shire but I don’t think people would accept him. And I am not sure how I would birth him there. Would any midwife attend me? In Minas Tirith I would be cared for but still my child would be the subject of gossip. And then there is Bilbo. He is growing so old now and I would dearly love to see him again. In truth, my mind has been in turmoil over this for some weeks and I don’t know what to do for the best.”

Elrond’s voice fell like a cool balm on fevered wounds. “My home has always been open to any member of Bilbo’s family, Frodo. You are welcome to deliver your babe there and stay for as long as you wish. I promise that no one there will make you feel any shame. My people can see the rightness of that which you bear and we can only love your child and rejoice with you.”

The tears returned and Elrond moved closer to slip a comforting arm about the prospective parent. Frodo leaned into his protector, inhaling the warm scent that was the Lord of Imladris.


	7. Chapter 7

Frodo eyed the small white pony with some trepidation. He had ridden Bill, and the ponies that Merry provided when they left the Shire were not frightening to him. But this pony looked so delicate compared to the sturdy animals bred by the Brandybucks. Sam had wanted him to ride with Merry, for he had the most experience of riding of any of the hobbits but Elrond had insisted that he did not want Frodo to be squashed into a saddle with another body. Frodo had to admit that he could see the sense in that. 

Eowyn and Legolas had assured Sam that this seemingly sedate creature would be perfect for Frodo. Although he trusted the Lady of Rohan Frodo glanced aside to where Elrond was mounting his own tall horse at the head of the procession, and received a nod of encouragement from his protector.

Legolas supported him with a hand beneath his elbow as he climbed the stone mounting block and settled himself gingerly astride the well-padded saddle. The pony did not so much as shuffle and Frodo began to feel a bit more confident as the Prince of Mirkwood handed him the reins. Legolas patted the pony on the neck and paused to whisper something in its ear before he left to join Gimli upon Arod.

At least Frodo's new clothes were comfortable. He had to concede defeat nearly two weeks ago with the original suits of clothing given him in Ithilien, when he had finally been unable to fasten his breeches in a way that managed to preserve his dignity. Before he could do anything about it himself Sam had mentioned the matter to Aragorn. The King, much to Frodo's embarrassment, had sent Arwen and Eowyn and the two ladies had taken great delight in arranging a new, more appropriate, wardrobe for the parent to be.

Frodo had endured several embarrassing sessions with one or both of these ladies as they measured him, in ways that he found far too intimate for ladies to do, and discussed the practicalities of his wardrobe. For his part he insisted quite vocally that whatever they designed include breeches and absolutely no embroidery. Arwen had pouted prettily at that but Frodo had remained quite adamant on the point. 

He had not been too displeased with the end result of their haggling. He now had a selection of breeches with drawstring waists and braces and several soft loose linen shirts, along with some long warm overmantles for the cooler weather later in the year and a soft full cloak. The fact that Arwen had managed to slip in one shirt with a fine line of embroidered leaves around the cuffs had not escaped his notice, however, and he had instructed Sam to place the offending garment at the bottom of his luggage.

Sam had fretted for days about the dangers of his Mr Frodo riding "in his delicate condition" but all the big folk had said that this early in his term there would be no danger to parent or baby, as long as they took the journey slowly. As this was, to all intents and purposes, a funeral cortege for King Theoden that was not going to be a problem.

Frodo was relieved that he had been allowed to ride. Much as he was uncertain of his mount it was definitely preferable to being transported in a litter, which had been the only other option. A carriage would have been far too uncomfortable in the open country they would be travelling.

The nausea that had plagued him in the early weeks was now diminishing and, much to Sam's delight, Frodo's appetite was returning. If he found his master's new craving for strawberry conserve and cheese sandwiches at odd hours of the day and night to be a little unusual, he was at least willing to indulge it if it meant that Frodo was eating something.

Frodo glanced down at himself as they began to move through the city, a little self-conscious as people in the streets stopped to pay their respects to the dead King Theoden, and watch the column of riders pass. Frodo's stomach was a little larger than he was used to seeing it but all the other hobbits were looking a little more rounded by now, so well had they all been cared for. Bilbo would be proud to see them. Frodo could imagine him now . . . 

"Perfectly proper shape for a hobbit. You were always far too skinny, my lad."

Frodo sighed. He could imagine the words but he still could not hear Bilbo's voice. And what would Bilbo say to Frodo's condition? Would it all be too much for the ageing hobbit? Would he turn away from his nephew? Frodo wanted so much to be hugged by his uncle, as he had been when he was a child frightened of the dark. 

The loud call of trumpets as the large cortege exited the gilded city gates drew his mind back to the present and he found his eyes lingering upon the fine linen of his shirt. The loose shirt worn over the top of his breeches, hid his small breasts quite well, much to his relief, for of all the changes, he found this the most uncomfortable to live with. He had always been delicately featured and this "swelling" of his chest could give someone completely the wrong impression regarding his gender. 

He bit back a sudden giggle, earning himself a curious glance from Sam. Just exactly what gender was he now? The giggle grew and he clamped a hand over his mouth. This was silly. He had spent the first few weeks of his term permanently on the verge of tears and now here he was, in the middle of a funeral cortege, wanting to laugh hysterically. Sam nudged his pony closer to his master.

"Are you alright, Mr Frodo? Would you like to rest for a while?"

Frodo shook his head, not daring to remove his hand or open his mouth, for fear that the mounting laughter would escape. Just as he feared that he had lost the battle and was about to shake himself apart all mirth died, as he felt a light flutter of movement in his belly.

Sam took the pony's reins as Frodo's eyes widened and his hands flew to his slight stomach in alarm. Turning all his attention inward he made no protest when he distantly heard Sam's voice calling out urgently for Lord Elrond. What was happening? Was he about to give birth? Surely the child was too small? Was he going to lose the babe? Oh please . . . no.

 

Within minutes he had been lifted from his pony and laid upon a blanket on the ground within the shadow of some trees. Elrond and Arwen settled either side of him and Frodo could see Sam, Merry and Pippin hovering in the background.

The giggle had long faded and was being replaced by sobs as Frodo contemplated the loss of that which he had begun to want more than anything in his life. He watched through a mist of tears as Elrond lifted the hem of his shirt, loosened his breeches and laid gentle hands upon his stomach. The flutter returned and Frodo whimpered in alarm.

His cries froze on his lips however, when Elrond leaned back and chuckled. Taking one of Frodo's hands he laid it atop the hobbit's belly and held it there. His voice was tinged with laughter.

"Is this what so alarmed you?" 

Beneath his fingers Frodo felt the faintest of flutters, as though in answer to Elrond's question and nodded, not daring to speak. Elrond glanced across at his daughter and took one of her hands, laying it beside Frodo's. There was another tiny ripple of movement and Arwen looked down at Frodo, her grey eyes soft with wonder.

The hobbit finally found his voice. "What is happening to my baby? Will I lose him?"

The ageless face of the elven healer turned towards him. "Not unless he decides to shuffle himself out of there, no."

Frodo frowned. "I don't understand."

Elrond smiled. "Frodo, could you lie perfectly still for nine whole months?" When Frodo shook his head he continued. "Well, neither can your baby. He is merely finding a more comfortable position."

Blue eyes widened. "I never thought. I mean I suppose I have heard my aunts mention it but I never knew that it . . . that it felt so . . . so real."

Arwen re-arranged Frodo's shirt and dabbed at his face with her kerchief, then she and her father helped him to his feet. 

"Oh believe me, Frodo. In another four months that movement will feel very real indeed," Elrond chuckled.

Frodo looked at his friends sheepishly, his cheeks blazing, as Elrond helped him back into the saddle and he heard Pippin yelp as Merry jabbed him in the ribs for giggling.

As their journey continued Frodo focussed only half his attention upon his surroundings, keeping one hand resting upon the small swell of his stomach and smiling softly as he felt the occasional restless movements of his son. It seemed the child disliked riding about as much as Frodo did.

The thought brought a new sense of wonder to the parent to be. This being, growing within his body had arms and legs that could move and a mind of his own already . . . could decide what he did and did not like and when he was uncomfortable. Frodo stroked his stomach gently, trying to soothe his son and, to his surprise, the tiny movements slowed and settled.


	8. Chapter 8

Frodo rolled over, trying to delve back into sleep, but he could not roll away from his own body, and at this moment it was being rather noisy. Although his nausea had reduced greatly over the past few weeks it still occasionally caught him unawares and this evening, just after leaving the funeral feast, had been one of those times. As usual, half an hour after emptying his stomach he was ravenous, but this was Edoras and he could hardly bother his hosts in the middle of the night.

Rolling over in despair, he sat up as quietly as he could and decided to go exploring. Surely it could not be that difficult for a hobbit to find the kitchens. He decided to do what all hobbits do in these situations and follow his nose, picking his way carefully around all the folk sleeping on the floor. It led him to a portal at the far end of the feasting hall, a sliver of candlelight peeping under the door. Reaching up for the large handle, Frodo pushed the door open and stepped gingerly inside.

One small figure sat at the enormous scrubbed wooden table and arranged around a lone candle before him was a selection of plates, obviously containing some of the remains of the evening’s feast. In the dim light it took Frodo a moment to realise that the figure lifting a thick sandwich was Pippin. The sound of the door closing made the young Took stop, mid-gape and it wasn’t until Frodo stepped forward that he let out a long breath and continued to take a huge bite out of his acquisition.

“Good evening, Cousin,” he mumbled around the contents of his mouth. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I will be if you let me share that feast,” Frodo replied, inspecting the contents of the assorted crockery.

“Help yourself.”

Pippin continued to munch contentedly on his roast mutton sandwich while he watched Frodo slice and butter bread, adding a thick slice of crumbly cheese. Pippin stopped chewing, however, when he saw his cousin spread strawberry conserve on the other slice of bread and then lay that atop the cheese. Wrinkling his nose, Pip swallowed noisily.

“That’s an . . . unusual combination, Frodo.”

The older hobbit paused, looking from sandwich to cousin in mild surprise. Was it an odd combination? Well, yes . . . perhaps it was. But it tasted so good. He took a bite and smiled blissfully, savouring the sharp sour taste of the cheese mingling with the sweetness of the conserve. Pippin made no further comment as he handed Frodo a cup of milk.

Frodo grinned. “This reminds me of Brandy Hall. Merry and I and a few other children used to do this,” he confessed.

Pippin nodded. He had been brought up on tales of the pranks of young Frodo Baggins. It was strange that he could not seem to equate that Frodo with the serious hobbit that sat before him.

“Should you be out of bed, Frodo? I thought you were supposed to get plenty of rest?”

Wiping a small line of milk from his upper lip, Frodo chuckled. “You try telling my stomach that. It was growling so loudly I’m surprised it didn’t wake Sam in the next bed.” He glanced across at Pippin in time to see the pale green-gold eyes glowing in the candlelight. Frodo recognised the expression and laid his snack aside, waiting patiently for the question to work its way from Pippin’s mind to his mouth.

“What’s it like, Frodo?” It did not take much imagination to guess what he was referring to.

“Frightening, but not so much now. Now it’s sort of . . . nice.”

Pippin nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as frightened as you have been these past few weeks.”

“Oh yes you have, Pip. I was scared all the way from Bag End to Mordor.”

At one time Pippin would have been surprised by this confession but events of the past months had matured him beyond his years and for that Frodo felt a great sadness.

“I suppose I’d never really considered that,” Pippin replied. “You defended yourself against the Witch King and you were going to head off into Mordor all by yourself. I thought you must be terribly brave.”

Frodo sighed. “I did what I had to do. If I had truly been as brave as you think I would not have let my friends follow me into danger. You have all been hurt because of my fear and I’m sorry that I brought that upon you.”

Pippins face changed at that and Frodo was suddenly reminded of the elves for he seemed both old and young together. “No, Frodo. You didn’t press us. In fact if you remember you tried to slip away without us. Don’t blame yourself. If the same thing were to happen again I’d make the same decision, even knowing where it may lead.”

“And so would I” came a chorus from the door as Sam and Merry joined them.

“We should have known we’d find them here, Sam. Pippin has a natural aptitude for finding food and I seem to remember that Frodo had a fondness for midnight feasting when he lived at the Hall.” Merry’s eyes lit upon the sandwich on Frodo’s plate and he lifted the top slice curiously. “Frodo . . . whatever have you got in this?”

“I expect it’s cheese and strawberry jam,” interjected Sam with a grin.

Merry dropped the bread at once. “Good gracious Frodo. You can take this expectant mother thing too far, you know. Does Lord Elrond know what he’s letting himself in for, I wonder?”

About to take a bite from his sandwich, Frodo paused in surprise and turned to Sam. Even in the pale candlelight he could see his friend blushing deeply.

“I’m sorry, Mr Frodo. You know what Mr Merry’s like. He got me all confused and before I knew what was happening out it popped. I didn’t mean to tell him about not going back to the Shire.”

Merry showed no remorse whatsoever and only chuckled as he sliced some bread and began to pick through the plates to prepare a filling. “We do seem to have had this conversation before, don’t we?”

“Merry, you are quite incorrigible,” Frodo frowned.

Sam rescued the bread and knife from Pippin, who was about to make himself a second sandwich. Deprived of his food the younger hobbit switched to his next favourite activity . . . asking questions.

“Why don’t you want to have your baby in the Shire, Frodo? A hobbit should grow up in the Shire.”

All three sets of eyes fell on him and Frodo swallowed quickly. “I’d like nothing better, Pip. It’s thoughts of the Shire that have kept me going when it was so dark. But can you honestly see any midwife attending me? And my child would be pointed at wherever he went.”

“Then why not have your baby in Rivendell and then bring it back to the Shire?” Pippin pursued.

“Pip. Who is your second cousin twice removed?” asked Frodo.

“Why you are, silly.”

“Exactly. And within a day of my return to the Shire everyone in Buckland would want to know my son’s parentage. What would I tell them?”

“You could make something up,” the younger hobbit started and then shook his head. “No. That wouldn’t work. Someone would be bound to find out. Oh bother! It’s not fair.”

Frodo smiled at his cousin’s annoyance. “No, it’s not fair, Pip. But I expect I will be happy enough and you can come and visit us.”

“Yes, I’m sure Mr Gandalf will guide you,” Sam added, buttering his bread.

Frodo recognised the tone at once. “Oh no you don’t Samwise Gamgee. This . . .” he patted his tummy, “came about because I was jealous of you and Rose Cotton. Don’t you go making it all needless. Rose is waiting for you and you’re going to marry her and have lots of little Sam lads and Rosie lasses. I just wish I could have left you Bag End, but you could have the house at Crickhollow if you like.”

“But Mr Frodo . . . I can’t leave you alone with only elves. They’re nice enough folk and all but they’re not hobbits. They don’t know how you like your eggs done and how to make your bed just right. And you know I . . .”

“No, Sam.” Frodo’s voice held a note of finality that Sam had come to recognise and tears began to roll down his face. Frodo slipped an arm about him at once and laid his head on Sam’s shoulder.

“Oh Sam. You have been a truer friend to me than anyone has a right to expect. I would have given up many times without you. But I need to know that all the things I’ve lost have been lost for a reason. I need to know that you and Merry and Pippin and all the other dear, dear hobbits of the Shire will be getting on with their lives in the way hobbits always have. Please, Sam. If you won’t do it for any other reason then do it for me.”

Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Alright, Mr Frodo. But it’ll be hard.”

“I know, Sam. And I’m sorry that you had to be put in that position. But Rose loves you and I know you will be very happy together. You need to heal, Sam, and I think she’s the one to do it.”

“But what about you, Mr Frodo? You need to heal too.”

Frodo smiled and took one of Sam’s hands, laying it atop the small swelling of his master’s stomach. “This is my healing, Sam.” 

And as if to confirm his parent’s assertion, the tiny babe moved beneath Sam’s fingers.


	9. Chapter 9

Frodo sighed as Sam bent down and laced his hands together to boost his master into the saddle. 

“Sam. I’m not an invalid. I can mount on my own.” 

To prove his point Frodo did just that, although he tried not to let the strain of lifting the extra weight show in his face. He was tired. He was tired of riding. He was tired of carrying this extra weight around and he was growing heartily tired of his friends. They seemed to be forgetting all their own happiness in their haste to run around after him.

Merry would set out Frodo’s blankets as soon as they stopped. Pippin would fetch Frodo’s food and Sam would do just about everything else. Frodo had got to the point where he was almost frightened to relieve himself, half expecting to hear Sam ask, “Can I do that for you, Mr Frodo?”

As the day wore on Frodo grew more and more tense and waspish and yet, even though his sharp comments were sometimes met with expressions of confusion, still his friends continued to dog his steps. He tried to turn his mood around but, even acknowledging it did not help. Unused to the strange and wild mood swings that his condition brought about, Frodo was having difficulty dealing with them and that knowledge only increased his irritation today.

Finally they sat around the evening fire. The meal was finished but it was yet too early to retire, even though Frodo could clearly see his blankets laid out ready, courtesy of Merry. The parent-to-be was trying to bury his tension in a gentle conversation with Sam on the best way to cook trout, when a vague smell made his nose twitch and his stomach turn a slow roll.

At the other side of the fire Pippin had lit up his pipe, a look of blissful peace upon his features as he blew a large smoke ring in Merry’s face, making his cousin flap his hands in mock distaste.

“Pippin. Just because you’re the last of us to have any pipeweed doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it in our faces . . . you greedy little hobbit.” Merry’s words would have sounded harsh had they not been formed around a laugh.

Pippin merely grinned broadly. “Oh yes? And who are you calling “little”? I’m sure I’m a good inch taller than you.”

Frodo hurriedly stood and stretched. “Well, I’m off to bed. Goodnight,” he said, between teeth clenched against the threatening contents of his stomach.

The other three looked up in some surprise and Sam was on his feet in an instant. “Are you alright, Mr Frodo?”

“Oh for goodness sake, Sam. I am perfectly all right. Please stop asking that,” Frodo replied peevishly. Feeling guilty at once, he tried to soften his words. “I just thought I’d take a little stroll before going to bed. It’s been a long day riding.” 

With that he turned and strolled off, as nonchalantly as he could, but as soon as he was out of sight of the others he ran into the trees and was instantly and violently sick. Once his stomach had finished emptying itself he sat on a nearby log and wiped his mouth, wishing he had some water to swill. 

Pipeweed. How could a hobbit develop such a violent dislike of Pipeweed? He loved to have a quiet smoke after dinner. Not that he’d had much chance for that, ever since they had found that he was with child. 

Aragorn had caught him lighting up his pipe a few days after he had discovered the news, and had practically broken Frodo’s teeth snatching the stem from his mouth. Apparently, pipeweed smoke was not considered to be healthy for the baby. He had given it up rather grudgingly, often just sitting with his friends so that he could inhale it second hand. There was just something so comfortable about sitting around after a meal and smoking some Old Toby.

However within a few weeks he had realised that the faintest whiff of Old Toby, or any other pipeweed, made him feel rather nauseous. At first he had thought that the problem was just a symptom of the daily nausea he suffered but, even having recovered from that, he found that the scent of pipeweed still made him feel ill and he could not bear to even sit near someone who was smoking. 

He usually found some way to excuse himself when he saw pipes being filled for he would not dream of depriving someone of a pleasure he would willingly indulge in himself, if only his body would allow it. But Pippin had unexpectedly produced a hidden stash of weed and was taking great delight in taunting his friends with it. So involved had Frodo been in the conversation with Sam that he had not even noticed until the smell drifted across the fire. He swallowed against the sour taste in his mouth.

A soft whisper of silk and Frodo found himself staring down at two tiny, delicately slippered feet, peeping from beneath a hem of cobweb fine fabric seeded with pearls.

“Lady Galadriel!”

He would have jumped to his feet were it not for the gentle pressure of the Lady’s hand upon his shoulder. She held out a small cup, her face filled with understanding as she sat upon the log at his side. 

“With Lord Elrond’s compliments.”

Frodo sniffed at the contents and took a sip when he recognised the scent of peppermint, swallowing it gratefully. Galadriel laid a cool and soft hand upon his sweat-damp brow, brushing back his hair, and relief seemed to flow into him with the touch.

“Thank you. I hope the others didn’t notice too.”

“I believe that Elrond is speaking with them.”

“Oh no . . . please. I would not deprive them of such a simple pleasure. They’ve given up so much on my account already,” Frodo protested.

The elven lady merely tucked a strand of Frodo’s wayward hair behind one pointed ear and smiled. “Do not worry. They are merely being advised of your distress and the reason for it. I believe they will not smoke in your presence again.”

Frodo sighed. “It seems that they are always doing something or giving up something for me, even when they do not need to. I do wish they would stop feeling that they have to look after me, and would take up their own lives again.”

The Lady of the Golden Wood stared off into the trees for a moment and took a deep breath, her eyes turning to find a small honeysuckle vine scrambling up a nearby tree. 

“Many years ago a honeysuckle vine grew about the entrance to my chamber. Celeborn had planted and trained the vine to thread up the tree and surround the door over many patient years, and it was our delight to lie abed wrapped in its fragrance. It was our favourite place in all the world and often we would sit there even during the daylight hours. It was our sanctuary. A special place where we could put away our cares and be just Celeborn and Galadriel, rather than the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.”

Frodo listened curiously. This lady and her lord had always seemed so high and proud that he had never thought of them as simply husband and wife. Galadriel’s voice was as soft as the perfume of rose petals on a summer breeze and that, combined with the peppermint cordial he had taken, settled Frodo’s stomach and mind. Her warm voice continued.

“When I carried our daughter, Celebrian, within me it was a time of great joy for us, but as the weeks drew on it became clear that the scent of honeysuckle made me feel very ill. It was inexplicable and for a long time I kept the discomfort from my husband, not wanting him to have to give up the comfort of our chamber. It seemed to me too great a sacrifice to ask of him.

But one morning he enquired what the matter was that troubled me so. I have never been able to dissemble with Celeborn and he soon teased from me the reason for my distress. I remember that he kissed me upon the brow and simply said, “Then we must move to another chamber until our child is born.”

It was such a relief and I was a little taken aback. I had thought that he would be heartbroken to give up our bower but he gave it not a second thought. You see . . . he loved me so much that to him it was no sacrifice, if it made me comfortable. It only gave him the opportunity to express his love.”

Frodo glanced up at her ageless but wise face, trying to imagine this tall slender lady gravid with child. She brought a hand to rest lightly upon the small round of his belly.

“And your friends would do no less for you. Not because of this . . . but because of this.” With that Galadriel brought her hand to rest over Frodo’s heart. “And because that which you carry is a part of this. Please do not deny them the opportunity to express their love.”

Frodo took a deep breath, feeling all the stress and anger of the day melt away at last. “I’m afraid I have been awful to them today.”

Galadriel smiled as she relieved him of the empty cup. “They will forgive you. You have been given a beautiful gift, Frodo. Treasure this time and bask in the love that surrounds you.”

With those words the Lady stood, bending briefly to touch her lips to his brow in a tender kiss before drifting away into the trees like a cool evening mist. 

Frodo lifted his eyes to the stars of Elbereth netted in the branches of the trees above him and breathed in the perfume of warm loam and honeysuckle, before considering turning to the blankets so lovingly laid out for him by Merry.


	10. Chapter 10

This chapter contains quotes and paraphrases from Tolkien’s work . . . some of them taken out of context. Did I mention that this tale was AU? But then, I suppose you’ve already guessed that.

 

The next morning brought the large party out of the woods that clothed the hills at the feet of the Misty Mountains, now marching away on their right hand. The day was warm and a light breeze made riding comfortable so that they stopped little, making as much headway as they could. The sun was low in the sky when they encountered a ragged and stumbling pair of travellers. One was dressed in stained and soiled garments, which may have been white at one time, and the other hurried along in his wake wearing the ragged remains of once black robes.

Now riding near the head of the column, with the elven lords and Gandalf, Frodo was surprised when the wizard called out to the taller of the two.

“Well Saruman! Where are you going?”

The figure clad in dirty grey looked over his shoulder and Merry’s sharp intake of breath let Frodo know that this person was, indeed, the once White Wizard. 

“And what is it to you? I have been thrown out of my home so I must wander where I can.”

“If you had waited at Orthanc the King may have shown you mercy,” Gandalf replied with no sign of ire.

“Then all the more reason to leave. I want no mercy from a mortal. Even now I am seeking a way out of his realm.”

“If you are travelling west I fear you are going the wrong way, Saruman.” Interjected Galadriel. 

Gandalf moved Shadowfax closer. “Will you not allow us to assist you?”

“Assist me? Do not smile at me! I prefer your frowns. And as for the Lady . . . I have never trusted her for she always took your part. I expect she has lead you this way just to gloat upon me.”

Galadriel’s clear voice was filled with humour. “We have other business more pressing than pursuing you. Will you not accept this last chance to mend your ways?”

“If it truly is the last I am glad, for it will spare me the effort of refusing again. And you, of all, have least to celebrate I would think. All that you have wrought will now fade away to nothing and that at least will afford me some comfort in my wanderings. For you brought down your own house when you ruined mine. And you, Lady . . . no ship will come to carry you into the West. You will have to remain and watch your world disintegrate,” he sneered.

If the Lady of the Golden Wood took his words to heart she did not show it, although Frodo noticed Lord Celeborn sidle his mount closer to his wife’s palfrey.

As Saruman dragged a mumbling Grima Wormtongue after him he spied the hobbits and paused. “So you have come to gloat too? Such fine clothes now and I imagine your bags are stuffed with the best pipeweed. I suspect you would not even offer enough to fill a beggar’s pipe, would you?”

Frodo sat as tall as he could upon his pony, determined to hold his own against Saruman’s hot glare. “I would if I had any.”

To his surprise and Pippin’s, it was Merry who rummaged in his saddlebag and produced a small pouch. “Here. Take what you want for, in truth, it came from your store at Isengard.”

Saruman snatched it from him. “It is only a token, for I expect you stole much more from my home. Still, a beggar must be grateful if a thief returns only a morsel of his own. Long may your land be short of leaf!” he spat.

Frodo gasped for the curses of a wizard, even one who had fallen as low as Saruman, were not to be taken lightly. And what other curses could he place upon the beloved Shire? He set his jaw and was aware of his friends nudging their ponies closer to his, with similar fears.

“Gandalf warned me that you were still capable of mischief. I’ll thank you to stay away from the Shire for you will find it no longer an easy target for your anger.”

“Ha!” Saruman’s laugh was a sharp, dry, bark of derision. “Think you that Gandalf will protect your precious land . . . or any of these high and mighty folk? They have got what they wanted and now they will drop you. You are no more use to them . . . Ringbearer.”

Gandalf’s voice cut across the words. “Do you forget, Saruman, that you have been stripped of your power? You can do no more harm to these good folk. Although your tongue, it seems, has lost none of its venom. Perhaps you would prefer incarceration to ensure your silence. I am sure Lord Elrond or Lord Celeborn would need little persuasion to arrange it.”

Frodo looked across into the once great wizard’s vengeful face and found that he felt nothing but pity. “No. I do not fear him now. He has nothing but thoughts of petty vengeance left. Leave him to his spite. To lock him up would heal nothing of the damage he has caused. And I would not see anyone deprived sight of sun and stars, and green and living things.”

For the first time Frodo thought he saw a flash of deep anger in Saruman’s eyes but then the wizard turned to call his cringing shadow. “Come Grima. We are dismissed.” 

Even as he turned to go, however, a knife flashed in his hand and he stabbed swiftly.

“I will not be pitied. Least of all by some little Shire rat!” 

Fortunately Sam had been watching closely and instead of the blade sheathing itself in Frodo’s heart it slashed at his arm instead as Sam jostled his master’s pony out of the way and drew sting. Frodo cried out in agony but his cry turned into a call as he saw Sam’s face.

“No, Sam! I would not have his death upon your hands. He is fallen and his cure is beyond us; but I would spare him, in the hope that he may find his healing, with time.”

Saruman’s face showed a strange mixture of wonder, respect and hatred. “You are grown, halfling.” A slow smile stretched his thin lips. “I have no need of healing . . . but you? I doubt you will find the healing you seek in Middle Earth.” And with a final twitch of his robes he took off across the road and into the wilderness, with Grima shuffling like the pale shadow of a wind-tossed cloud behind him.

Frodo gave in at last to the pain and a dark mist seemed to draw in about him. He struggled to stay upright, fearful of the consequences for his son if he fell from the pony, but felt himself sliding sideways and cried out even as strong hands caught him. Then the mist swallowed him and he knew no more.

 

00000

 

There was a voice . . . warm as a summer afternoon on the hill above Bag End. 

“Listen to my voice.”

It was a friendly voice but Frodo wanted to shut it out for something within him knew that if he listened to it he would be drawn out of the cold but numb place where he was lying to a place of pain. But the voice was insistent and he found himself being drawn despite his stumbling resistance.

A pinpoint of light appeared in the distance and the voice seemed to issue from it. 

“Come back to the light, Frodo.” It was not a request, but a demand, despite its gentle tone.

The pinpoint of light became a circle that spread wider and wider and Frodo found himself being propelled towards it at an ever increasing rate, frightened at the speed of his passage but unable to prevent it, until he arrived in the full light with a moan of protest. He drew in a sharp breath and even this movement sent the expected pain slicing through his injured arm . . . making his eyes fly open.

He was staring up into a blue sky and his first thought was of his babe. Had he fallen from the pony after all? Was the child alright? He tried to move his hand to his belly and whimpered as the pain in his arm increased. Suddenly a dark shape slid into his field of vision and Sam’s voice over-rode his cries.

“He’s awake sir. Now just you lie still, Mr Frodo. It took Master Elrond a while to stop the bleeding and he says you’re to rest.”

Still concerned for his child Frodo latched onto the word’s and panic flooded through him. “Bleeding?”

“Your arm. Don’t you remember? That nasty Saruman attacked you?” advised Sam, with some concern “And why he didn’t deserve death for it I’ll never understand,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Frodo let out a sigh and relaxed into the blankets that cocooned him. “There has been too much death, Sam. And I would not see his blood on your gentle hands.”

But before Sam could argue further Frodo had to ask. He had to know. “The baby. Is the baby well?”

Elrond’s gentle voice drifted to him and a hand slid beneath his head. “Your babe is unharmed, Frodo. Saruman failed in his attempt, thanks to your friend. You are weak now but with rest you will recover and give birth to your child in due time.”

The elven healer put a cup to Frodo’s lips and he recognised the contents at once as a weak infusion of ginger and chamomile. He swallowed it gratefully and then settled back, exhausted.

His child was safe for now but what of the future? Was Elrond right or was he just trying to keep up Frodo’s hopes? Could he bring this child to term? Saruman was right. The quest had broken his body and mind. This child was indeed bringing healing to his mind but could he physically carry it in his damaged body . . . now weakened further by the wizard’s intervention? 

The unresolved thoughts were still swirling in his mind as the tea began to tug him down into soothing sleep.

 

cont


	11. Chapter 11

It was that time again . . . that lovely comfortable time between sleeping and waking. Frodo snuggled down into the warm enfolding blankets, turning his cheek to settle against the soft velvet that supported him. There was a gentle rocking movement and soft musical voices drifting just beyond his understanding.

“You are safe, Frodo. We will be setting up camp soon and then you can rest properly.”

Too cosy to think about the words clearly Frodo tried, instead to place the owner of the voice. These words were not uttered in Gandalf’s gruff tones or Aragorn’s almost whisper. Neither were they spoken in Elrond’s clear strong voice. Then, who? It was a big person . . . of that he was sure. Suddenly he knew.

Frodo blinked his eyes open in alarm and tilted his head back to find himself staring up into the silver eyes of Lord Celeborn. Embarrassed to be carried like a child by such a high personage, he tried to squirm upright in the arms that held him and yelped as the movement sent a sharp stab of pain through his right arm.

Celeborn frowned and laid a hand upon Frodo’s chest. “Sleep, Frodo.”

Before he knew what was happening the hobbit’s limbs relaxed and his head slid back to rest against the elf’s warm chest. By the time he realised that his body had reacted without his instruction he was too drowsy to care and merely nestled closer, allowing himself a small yawn before dipping down into sleep once more.

00000

His arm was aching and sore but then something cool was smoothed upon it and Frodo sighed at the relief it brought. There was a delicate flowery smell and something soft was laid upon the hurt and bound gently but firmly in place. This time Frodo recognised the voice of Elrond before he cracked open his eyes to see the dark haired elf tying off a fine silk bandage around the hobbit’s upper arm.

“Nearly finished, Frodo.”

The healer smiled as he wiped his hands upon a cloth and then touched a cup to Frodo’s lips. It was warm weak ginger tea, liberally stirred with fragrant honey and he swallowed it gratefully. 

Elrond spoke softly as Frodo sipped. “The wound on your arm is deep and long and there was some infection, however it has cleared and the stitches are holding well. Your main problem is the loss of blood you suffered but rest and plenty of fluids should help there.”

“Thank you, Lord Elrond. I am sorry that I have been such a burden to you on this journey,” murmured Frodo as he swallowed the last drops of the warming tea.

Setting the empty cup aside, Elrond tucked soft light blankets closer about his charge. “It is my pleasure to help and you are a light burden, willingly accepted.”

Frodo was about to protest that he should not be so dependent upon big folk for his care when he remembered the Lady Galadriel’s words and settled back instead.

If Elrond was aware of his thoughts he allowed no indication of it to show upon his smooth features, as he leaned back upon his heels and began to remove a selection of items from his herbal. Frodo resigned himself to what was to come.

When they had started out upon this journey Frodo had secretly welcomed the thought that Aragorn or Aldern would no longer be subjecting him to the weekly intimate examinations. When Aragorn had continued the practice however, Frodo had resigned himself in the hopes that when the King left the group it would be forgotten, but it seemed that Aragorn had simply passed on the responsibility to his foster father.

At some point during his unconscious state Frodo realised that he had been undressed, by whom he did not wish to consider. He was almost growing used to the situation, he decided ruefully. With a start he found that Lord Elrond had been talking and he had been so lost in thought that he had not heard him. 

“. . . and I must keep a regular check upon the development of the baby and your body’s responses to carrying it.”

The healer folded back the blankets to expose his charge’s chest and abdomen and Frodo tried to very hard to concentrate upon the roof of the tent above him. When he felt Elrond palpating his newly developed breasts, however, he blushed deeply. At least they weren’t sore anymore. Thankfully the hands then moved down his torso to press lightly upon Frodo’s ripening belly, practiced fingers seeking to define the shape of the small form growing beneath stretching flesh.

The blankets were rearranged and the parent-to-be glanced at Elrond in alarm as the elf reached for a strange looking metal implement, which had been resting in a bowl of warm water. Folding the blankets now so that Frodo’s body was exposed from hips down, Elrond issued the instruction that his patient so dreaded. 

“Please bend your knees and place your feet flat upon the floor with your legs apart.” 

Biting his bottom lip, Frodo complied. He knew that Elrond was checking upon the formation of what he had called a “birth canal”. The fact that the examination had been conducted before, however, did not make it any more comfortable now and Frodo tensed, awaiting the intruding fingers with some dread. He was not used to being examined, however professionally, in such a personal area . . . before his anatomy had grown so wayward.

“This may feel a little uncomfortable.”

That was all the warning Frodo received before the metal instrument was slowly inserted. He flinched and let out a small whimper, tensing automatically against the strange intruder. Almost of its own volition, his body tried to squirm away as he felt the sides of the new opening in his body being stretched relentlessly apart by the strange device, and he blinked helplessly as tears began to roll down his face. Elrond’s gentle voice fell into his ears and mind. 

“You will make this less painful for yourself if you relax, Frodo. The muscles lining the passage will loosen, making it easier for me to widen them. Take a deep breath in through your nose to a count of three and out through your mouth to a count of four.”

Frodo tried to comply and once the initial shock of insertion was over the instrument became uncomfortable, rather than painful. He tried to breath as instructed and focus upon the canvas of the tent roof rather than on Elrond’s dark head bent too intimately close between his legs. As he continued his examination the elven healer spoke, his voice calm and low. 

“This will soon be over and there will be no further discomfort. I must check closely upon the internal formation of what I believe to be the birth canal, to ensure that it is prepared when your child is ready.”

When the elf had begun his examination Frodo had been glad that he had been spared the embarrassment of having anyone else present. Now he surprised himself by desperately wanting someone there to hold his hand and he fought to still the quivering of his chin and squeezed his eyes shut as tears slid back into his hairline. To his intense relief the intrusive implement was soon removed and his nakedness covered once more. A few moments later he felt a warm damp cloth dabbing away the tears from his face and he opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Lord Elrond. You must think me very foolish to behave this way over such a little thing. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

The elf’s face softened as he continued to blot away the last of the tears. “Some worry and intense emotional swings are quite usual and are nothing to feel sorry about. In that at least, your body and mind are reacting quite normally, for someone five months into term with their first child.”

Holding a cup of water so that Frodo could sip, Elrond went on. “You will be pleased to hear that everything appears to be progressing well, both with your child and with your own body. If matters continue to . . . develop . . . as they are you will be able to give birth to your babe without surgical intervention and may even be able to feed him yourself.”

Frodo fell back, wincing as his injured arm protested the sudden movement. Feed? He had thought the breasts . . . he suddenly realised that he had not considered them at all, other than as an embarrassment. He had once seen one of his aunts at Brandy Hall nursing her baby but the thought had never occurred to him that he may have to do likewise. And he was not entirely sure what he thought of the idea. 

Oh my. Whatever was Bilbo going to say?


	12. Chapter 12

Frodo yawned and tried to straighten his back in the saddle. As the front of his body expanded, so his back had begun to protest, and he was pleased when Lord Elrond glanced back to report that they would be entering the protection of Rivendell when they crested the next ridge. He shrugged his cloak further forward, wincing as his arm protested. Although the sling had been removed several days ago the wound still ached when the cool of evening drew in and his arm was stiff. Frodo sighed. His whole body felt stiff and tired and he wanted this long journey to be over so that he could lie in a soft feather bed.

Another part of his mind did not want the journey to end, however, for Frodo knew that Bilbo would be waiting. How would he explain his condition to his uncle? What would he say?

“Happy birthday for tomorrow Bilbo, dear. And by the way, I’m expecting a child sometime around Yule.” No. That would never do.

He looked down at his swollen stomach. He would have to tell his uncle something. A couple of months ago he could have waited until the right moment to bring up the subject but at six months into term it was quite obvious that this was not just a little extra weight, added by good food and gentle living. Frodo’s face was as thin as ever, if not more so, and any additional inches were concentrated predominantly in one, now quite obvious, area. Bilbo’s mind may not be as agile as it once was but even he would ask questions when he saw his nephew.

In the weeks that they had been travelling between Minas Tirith and Rivendell, everyone in the party had known of his condition and Frodo had become comfortable with it. No one stared or pointed and he had been protected from the world in this small company. Now he would be rejoining the world and meeting strangers. The explanations would have to be made all over again. 

Elves seemed to accept such things easily . . . perhaps because they had lived long enough to realise that there was always something new to discover and nothing in life was certain. The thoughts brought home to Frodo how difficult it would be for him to return to the Shire and he was glad he had made the decision not to. Two or three months ago it had still seemed possible but as Frodo’s body changed the physical reality of his situation sank in. He and his child would never be accepted in the Shire, where everyone believed that life was sure and ordered; where things had been done the same way for generations . . . and the lasses bore the babies.

The ever-sensitive Sam nudged his pony closer to his master and smiled across at him reassuringly. “You’ll be able to sleep in a proper bed tonight, Mr Frodo. Maybe even have a hot bath.” There was the slightest of pauses before he went on. “And I expect Mr Bilbo will be right glad to see you back, safe.”

Frodo tried to return the smile. Safe. Was he safe? Despite all the care lavished upon him by man and elf, Frodo could still feel the poison of knife and sting in his body and what memories that had not been ripped away were distant and did not feel a part of him any more. Elrond had said that this child would bring him healing but could it purge his body of the poison or return his memories? Could it restore the innocence that had been so ruthlessly devoured by that circle of flame?

They were travelling downhill now, within the deeply wooded valley of Imladris and below him Frodo could see fire of a different kind . . . the soft welcoming gold of candlelight filtering through many delicately paned glass windows. At least in Lord Elrond’s home he was welcome. He would have to deal with Bilbo when the situation arose . . . just as Frodo had dealt with his whole life of late. He had given up trying to plan, for too many extraordinary things had happened to him and he was too weary to even try.

As they entered the courtyard Frodo scanned the waiting faces but Bilbo was not amongst those gathered in the large, elaborate porch. There were several minutes of pleasant chaos as people exchanged greetings and ran forward to take charge of horses and ponies, and Frodo and his companions ended up standing to one side to avoid getting lost in the general melee. As things died down and elves began to filter into the house in two’s and threes, Elrond approached the hobbits.

“Well, Little Masters. Are you ready to retire to your chambers and soft beds, or would you prefer to talk with Bilbo first? I am told that he has not yet retired for the night.”

Pippin spoke up first. “We would love to see old Bilbo.” He shot Merry a questioning glance when his cousin jabbed him firmly in the ribs and turned in time to find Frodo staring at the floor, his face pale. Merry laid an arm about Frodo’s shoulders, his soft brown eyes filled with understanding.

“Would you like us to come with you or would you rather see Bilbo alone first?”

Frodo’s last meal began to churn alarmingly in his stomach and he swallowed hard. Bilbo would have to be faced eventually and he supposed that the longer he postponed the event the longer he would feel this dreadful. Perhaps it would be better to know his uncle’s reaction now. Would Bilbo understand why his nephew had put on the Ring and would he be disappointed? Would he accept Frodo’s present condition? At least the others had come to terms with the event. He found that, once again, he did not have the strength to start out on this journey alone.

“Yes. Please come.”

And what of Bilbo himself? The old hobbit was not as robust as he had once been. Would the shock kill him? Frodo’s stomach performed a slow roll and he closed his eyes, swallowing again. Two large hands came to rest lightly upon his shoulders and with their touch his stomach quieted. Frodo inhaled the warm and steadying scent of Elrond and opened his eyes to find the Lord of Imladris kneeling on the floor before him so that their faces were level.

“Would you like me to go with you to see Bilbo?”

Frodo sighed with relief. “I would be very grateful. I’m not sure that I will be able to explain properly and I don’t want to alarm him.”

“Come then,” Elrond replied, rising.

Although all knew the way the little party was content to follow Elrond down the comfortable hallways of the Last Homely House. Opening the door to the Bilbo’s room, the elf ushered his charges in. The ancient hobbit was sitting in a well-padded chair by the fire. His grey head was bowed over an open book in his lap but his eyes were closed and he was snoring lightly. 

Merry took the initiative, stepping lightly forward and touching him on one shoulder. “Bilbo . . . wake up you old sleepy-head. We’re back,” he whispered.

The snores stopped abruptly and watery grey-blue eyes blinked open, to focus blearily upon Merry’s grinning features. Bilbo’s wrinkles re-arranged themselves into a delighted smile and he peered around the large lad before him to search for the rest of the party, his eyes lighting up when he found Sam, Pippin and Frodo waiting by the door.

“Merry, lad!” Bilbo opened his arms and gathered Merry to him in a light hug, which the younger and stronger hobbit returned carefully, fearful of crushing the frail old figure in the chair. Pippin followed him and then Frodo pushed Sam forward. The gardener was somewhat bashful of hugging his former employer but the embrace he received was no less affectionate than that which had been offered to the others.

Looking across the room in confusion, Bilbo beckoned to his favourite nephew. “Don’t stand way over there, lad. Come and give your uncle a hug.” 

Still, Frodo hung back and watched as Bilbo’s smile faded, to be replaced by a small frown. 

“What’s this? No hug for me? I won’t break, you know . . . although from the looks of your face, you may. Have they not been feeding you properly?”

Frodo came forward, making sure that his cloak disguised his belly as much as possible and leaned down to hug his uncle lightly. Bilbo drew him into a surprisingly firm embrace and Frodo grimaced as his still healing arm was gripped. That was the least of his worries however for in such a tight embrace there was no way that he could hide his swelling stomach any longer. As Frodo was released the other hobbits faded to the rear of the room and Elrond drifted closer.

Frodo waited silently as his uncle’s eyes travelled from face to waistline, the frown deepening. A trembling hand reached forward to touch his nephew’s stomach tentatively in confusion, and Frodo fought the urge to move away from hands that he had trusted for most of his adult life.

“What’s happened to you, Frodo my lad? Your face says you’re half starved but your belly would put mine to shame. Is something wrong?” His last question was directed at the elven healer, now standing close behind Frodo.

Frodo’s thought’s skittered helplessly through his head and would not pause long enough for him to voice them. Sensing his problem it was Elrond who answered, reaching down to remove Frodo’s cloak and then lead him to a chair that Sam had hurriedly placed at the other side of the hearth.

“Frodo has been quite ill for some time, but he is recovering well . . . under the circumstances,” he replied calmly.

Bilbo’s gaze returned to Frodo. “You seem to have quite a tale to tell, lad. But from the looks of you, little strength to tell it. Was this all because of that silly ring of mine?”

“I’m afraid it was, Bilbo dear. But Lord Elrond is right in what he says. I’m feeling much better now.” Frodo paused, biting his lip for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “But there is something that you need to know . . . and I . . . I’m not quite sure how to tell you.”

The ancient hobbit leaned back in his chair and a glint of the old Bilbo flashed in his eyes of a sudden. “I’ve always found it best to just up and say it, lad.”

Frodo took a deep breath. “I’m going to have a baby, Bilbo.”


	13. Chapter 13

Bilbo’s reaction was not what Frodo had envisaged. The frown smoothed, his lips forming a broad grin.

“Congratulations, lad!”

However, Frodo’s heart sank at the next question. 

“Who’s the lucky lass? I always said you’d be a fine catch for some pretty maid but this is rather sudden news. When were you wed and why didn’t you send word? I’m not so feeble that I wouldn’t stir myself to attend the wedding of my favourite nephew and heir.”

Frodo shook his head. “No, no, Bilbo. You don’t understand. There was no wedding . . .” He ran out of words again, drawing back a little as he saw his uncle lean forward in his chair, his bushy eyebrows almost disappearing into the grizzled grey of his hairline.

“Frodo Baggins! No wedding and a babe on the way! Gracious lad. I thought you had been taught to respect a lass better than that.”

Frodo clenched his hands together in his lap in exasperation. This was not going well at all. He tried to rescue the situation and blurted out, “It’s not a lass that’s going to have the baby, it’s me. I’m the one with child, Bilbo.” 

He clutched his swelling abdomen in emphasis and, in the long heart-stopping silence that followed, Frodo would later swear that he could hear Bilbo blink.

His uncle leaned back, shock still written clear upon his face. “Frodo. I understand that a magic ring can play strange tricks on the mind, and I don’t know what that journey did to you, but I do know that I taught you all about the birds and the bees myself. I remember that morning vividly because I do believe it was one of the most difficult conversations I have ever had to conduct.” Bilbo spoke patiently, as he had that morning years ago. “Lads cannot bear babies, Frodo. That’s one of the gifts the Great Creator gave only to lasses.” He glanced up at Elrond. “Is that not so?”

The elf’s voice was calm and low, seeming to lie upon the troubled waters of the conversation like soothing oil. “In normal circumstances that is the case. But a Ring of Power such as Frodo bore for many months, can affect a body in strange ways. You of all people should understand that, Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked down at his own gnarled hands, spotted now with age, and then across at Frodo’s abdomen. His eyes drifted back to the elf in confusion. “But why?”

This time it was Frodo who answered, his courage finally coming to the fore. He realised how desperately he needed Bilbo if he was to get through this trial. Ever since he found out the news he had wanted those familiar arms about him . . . had clung to the hope. Elrond was kind and an experienced healer but he needed family . . . needed love.

“It had tried every other means to tempt me into accepting it.” Frodo closed his eyes to shut out his uncle’s hurt expression and his mind immediately threw other images at him. Eyes flying open in despair, Frodo pushed down memories that the Ring had viciously left intact . . . clear images of every attempt it had ever made upon his reason and emotions.

“It battered me day and night, Bilbo . . . would not let me eat or sleep. At the end I could see only the wheel of fire, feel only it’s weight dragging me down, hear only the temptations it whispered in my mind, taste only ashes and smell only death.”

Frodo felt hot tears welling and made no attempt to hold them back. “It tore away everything I was and ever wanted to be and I wanted to go back . . . to go back before the Ring. I wanted a home in the Shire with a loving wife and children. I wanted my innocence back and It knew at last . . . and held that promise out to me.” He was choking now and yet he could not stop the words that tumbled from his soul, even though he could see the growing alarm in his uncle’s features. “I was so tired of fighting, Bilbo. I . . . I put on the Ring. I so wanted that life.”

When Bilbo still did not speak Frodo clenched his teeth against his rising panic and went on. “But the Ring was evil. I had been warned . . . but I was so weary and worn down. Everyone had told me that it would turn anything good to evil. It showed me a child, Bilbo . . . and I didn’t stop to think. It wouldn’t let me think any more. I just said, “Yes”.” Finally running out of words and the control to utter them, Frodo buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

Gradually he became aware of gentle arms wrapped around him, rocking him soothingly. He laid his head upon Bilbo’s shoulder and let himself be consoled by his uncle’s comforting murmurs . . . wailing in relief.

“My poor boy. My poor, poor boy.”

 

00000

The warm weight of an arm was draped over his, the hand resting over his heart, and another stroked his hair. Frodo inhaled the comfortable smell of Bilbo . . . dusty books and lavender soap. There was something slightly different about it but his shattered memory could not provide the missing element and he was too comfortable and worn down to struggle bringing it to the fore.

Bilbo had held him for a long time and when Elrond tried to part them by lifting Frodo from the chair to carry him to his chamber, Frodo had struggled and whimpered forlornly. The older hobbit had provided the solution at once and within a few minutes Frodo had found himself tucked into his uncle’s bed, his head resting in Bilbo’s lap as he sat back against the headboard.

Frodo’s sobs had slowed and faded under his uncle’s gentle and familiar touch and he had dozed for a while, aware through it all of the presence of those stroking fingers, soothing his mind and body.

He felt Bilbo shifting his legs a little below his cheek and opened his eyes guiltily, suddenly aware that old limbs were probably uncomfortable from maintaining the same position for so long. Levering himself up, Frodo turned to look into his uncle’s face. 

“I’m sorry, Bilbo. How long have you sat like this? I’m very selfish and you must be stiff and tired.”

There was no censure in those kindly grey-blue eyes, however. “No lad. I’d sit like this forever if I thought it could ease you from the pain that I put you through, leaving you with the burden of that Ring.” 

Bilbo slipped an arm about his nephew and drew him back to sit, resting his head against a shoulder, the dark, travel-tumbled curls resting just beneath his jowls. Frodo nestled contentedly and pulled the covers up around them both while Bilbo rearranged his own limbs.

“It wasn’t your fault, Bilbo.”

“And neither was it yours, lad. Elrond agreed to you going because that ring would have overcome stronger and wiser folk much more quickly. They dare not even touch the thing that you carried around your neck for so many months. He tells me that they had never intended you to step into Mordor without Gandalf’s protection, and everyone is astounded that you managed to come to the mountain at all. There’s no shame attached to you in surrendering at the end, lad.”

Frodo closed his eyes, allowing his uncle’s words to bathe his hurts. He inhaled Bilbo’s comforting smell once more.

“Bilbo? Have you given up smoking?”

He felt, as well as heard, Bilbo’s soft chuckle. “I had a bit of a cold just after you left and Lord Elrond made me give it up.”

For the first time in days Frodo laughed gently. “Then, that makes both of us. I’m not allowed to smoke for as long as I carry my babe and, for some time afterwards.”

There was a soft silence and then Frodo felt Bilbo draw breath to speak. “How does it feel, to carry another life inside you?” the aged voice asked.

Frodo tipped his head back to look into his uncle’s face. It showed no distaste . . . only love and a touch of the younger Bilbo’s curiosity . . . and Frodo settled against his shoulder once more.

“At first I was frightened. I did not know what kind of being the Ring had planted within me.” Frodo felt the comforting arm wrapped around him tighten slightly. “But Gandalf had Legolas check and he and Elrond say that this is a normal baby. Now I’m still a little scared. I don’t know whether I can carry him to term because I’m so tired and I don’t know what to expect if I do manage.” He paused as he felt his uncle stir.

“Him?”

“Oh yes. I know it’s a boy. I’ve seen him . . . I think. He has dark hair and blue eyes.”

“You always were a one for visions and dreams, lad. I hadn’t really considered until now that the thing you carried was a living person. It’s a little difficult to take in.”

Frodo smiled and took his uncle’s hand, laying it upon the swell of his child, where he had only a moment before felt a slight stirring. “Oh, he’s living. Wait a moment.”

Bilbo’s gasp was audible as he felt the movement beneath his palm. Frodo’s smile turned to a giggle.

“Bilbo Baggins, let me introduce you to Calimore Baggins.” He waited while his uncle considered for a moment.

“A Quenyan name. There’s folk in the Shire would think that a little high minded of you.” Bilbo smiled. “Calim, I know means light but why Ore? That means inner mind.”

Frodo reached up his hand to rest upon his uncle’s chest. “It can also mean the heart or centre of the soul. Calimore is the light of my heart.”

Bilbo’s hand stroked the swell of his nephew’s stomach gently. “I’m a little surprised but very pleased to meet you, Calimore Baggins.” 

Snuggling closer in his uncle’s arms Frodo closed his eyes and surrendered to peaceful sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

“But, Lord Elrond, I feel better now than I’ve felt for months,” Frodo pleaded. “I only want to ride with them as far as the fords and then I’ll turn back.”

Gandalf, Pippin, Merry and Sam stood a little way back, watching in some amusement as the small figure faced off against the tall, stern elf. In truth, Frodo was a little surprised that he had the courage to do this, however over the past two weeks, he had felt more stable and confident than he had for a long, long time. Perhaps it was the comfort of having Bilbo around, or perhaps he was just more physically rested. Either way, Frodo did not want to say goodbye to his friends just yet.

Elrond studied him for a few moments in silence. They had been arguing for several minutes and, on and off, for nearly a week before that. The elf glanced up and over Frodo’s head, to where Gandalf watched, his face unreadable by the hobbits. Frodo saw a silent exchange and then those sharp grey eyes were focussed upon his once more.

“If you will wait here for a few minutes while I fetch a mount, you may go with them.” When Elrond saw Frodo’s face beaming in triumph he raised one finely arched brow. “You may not ride astride but I am prepared to let you sit upon a horse with me. That is my final word upon the matter.” 

Suddenly very much aware of the wisdom and power of this ancient elf lord, Frodo swallowed his pride and nodded. “Thank you.” When Elrond strode back into the house, however, Frodo spun around and was soon enveloped in a trio of happy voices and several friendly arms. The ancient wizard merely stood off to one side, smiling at the way this tiny hobbit could melt even Elrond’s warrior heart.

True to his word, as he had always been, within a few minutes they heard another horse approaching and turned to see Lord Elrond seated upon his tall grey mare. When Frodo noticed that he had discarded long formal robes for riding leathers and that there was a full bag of provisions, not to mention blankets, tied to his saddle he realised that he had been outsmarted by the elf. There was no way that even Elrond could have prepared so thoroughly in so short a space of time. It was clear that the conversation had been anticipated.

Frodo smiled ruefully at the elf as Gandalf handed him up into Elrond’s arms and the arching of one brow, accompanied by a twitch of his lips was the elven lord’s only reply. Amid much light banter and some laughter when Bill butted Sam lightly, sending him sprawling across the cobbles, the rest of the party mounted and set out through the gates at a leisurely pace.

They were in no hurry and so they stopped to rest frequently, spending the night under the wide canopy of a chestnut tree. The hobbits decided that there were definite advantages in travelling with the Lord of this valley, for Elrond knew exactly where to find fresh water, berries for desert and nuts to chew on while they sat around the fire after supper.

During their journey from Minas Tirith and their stay in The Last Homely House the hobbits had heard many lays sung and tales narrated, but never had they heard Elrond recite or sing. Sam, ever one for stories, finally plucked up the courage to ask for a tale. Elrond considered for a moment, his eyes resting upon Frodo, and then the elven lord’s strong, perfectly pitched voice sang out in slow and stately cadence and it seemed that the whole valley joined in the melody, for he sang of the creation of the world.

“There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Iluvatar; and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad . . .”

When the last notes faded, carried away upon the breeze, and the fire had died down to warm embers, the four hobbits shook themselves, dazedly. Sam was first to speak, almost afraid to break the spell woven by elf and valley.

“Thank you, sir. Begging your pardon, and all, but I’d expected a mighty lord like yourself to sing of warriors and kings. I’m right glad you chose that tale, though.” 

Elrond smiled across the warm glow of the fire at Frodo, where he leaned against Merry’s shoulder, eyes half lidded in the fringes of sleep. “The song of creation seemed more appropriate.”

Taking their lead from Frodo they all settled down for the night. The leaves on the ancient tree that sheltered them were still green and their soft whispering soothed as well as any lullaby. Autumn was closing in but the ground still held some warmth and Imladris, like Lothlorien, seemed to keep different time to the world around her. Even so, Frodo began to drift awake some time in the early hours, feeling chilled. Before he could open his eyes, however, gentle hands tucked extra blankets around him and he snuggled into them appreciatively, managing only a murmur of thanks before slipping down into slumber once more.

Warm sunshine, the smell of bacon and mushrooms cooking and the voices of his companions woke Frodo next. He rolled over sleepily, wincing at a slight ache in his left shoulder, and sat up. Merry grinned across the fire at him. 

“Awake at last. If you’d slept any longer Pippin was going to eat your breakfast and we were going to leave you to your snoring.”

Frodo rubbed his eyes and yawned, accepting the plate that Sam pushed into his hand. “I don’t snore,” he mumbled grumpily.

Pippin giggled. “Oh, definitely not. And neither did Gimli.”

Frodo gave him a glare that he hoped would freeze his younger cousin to the spot but Pippin only giggled louder and Frodo gave in, popping a fried mushroom in his mouth. By the time he had finished his breakfast and the others had broken camp Frodo was feeling more agreeable and managed to slip close to Pippin before they remounted.

“I would watch what you say in future, cousin . . . or I will tell everyone about the noisy night you subjected me to after eating that bean stew, on a camping expedition a few years ago.” Frodo whispered as he wrinkled his nose and wafted his hand in front of his face. 

The irrepressible Pippin grinned. “That was an interesting evening, wasn’t it?”

Frodo returned the grin and clipped him lightly on the ear before turning, ready for Gandalf to hand him up to Elrond. He could still feel a chill in the air, although it didn’t seem to bother the others, and Frodo was glad of the additional warmth of Elrond’s chest against his shoulder. 

After only an hour’s riding they came to the Ford’s of Bruinen and halted upon the near bank. Here the hobbits turned their ponies and looked up at their companion, where he leaned lightly against the elven lord. Frodo smiled down, although he couldn’t resist a quick glance upstream, half expecting a huge wall of water to come bearing down on him. Bruinen was on her best behaviour today, however and chattered lightly over the pebbled riverbed.

Merry reached up a hand and Frodo took it strongly. “I’ll miss your good hobbit sense, Merry.”

His cousin tilted his head, giving him a lopsided grin. “I shall be sure to give your regards to the Sackville Baggins’ when I meet them.”

Frodo chuckled. “Don’t bother to re-assure them that I won’t be coming back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, cousin.” 

Merry moved aside and Pippin replaced him, nudging his pony close. Frodo frowned down at him.

“Do try and stay out of trouble Pip.”

Pippin broke into a broad smile. “I always try to stay out of trouble, cousin Frodo. It just seems to find me.”

“Well, at least try running from it occasionally. You don’t have to make yourself quite so accessible.”

“If I remember rightly, it was running from trouble that got me mixed up with you,” he shot back quickly.

Frodo smiled as Pippin ducked out of reach of his cousin’s hands, allowing Sam to slip into the gap and for a moment neither he nor Frodo spoke. Silent tears were sliding down the gardener’s face and Frodo could feel his own throat aching with swallowed sobs. It was he who eventually spoke.

“Dear Sam. What would I have done without you?”

“I didn’t do nothing that anyone wouldn’t have done in my place,” he replied through trembling lips.

Frodo glanced up at his protector and Elrond lowered him gently to the ground. Merry took Bill’s reins from Sam’s slack fingers and the gardener slid from his pony and into Frodo’s waiting arms. And it seemed to Frodo that the chill that had dogged him all morning faded in the warmth of Sam’s embrace.

“Oh Sam. I dragged you into such danger and I would not have come through without your love and care. You go back to the safety of the Shire and the arms of your Rosie. Go and have your own family to look after instead of caring for this grumpy and ungrateful hobbit.” Frodo had finally lost the battle and his face was wet with tears as his quivering chin rested upon Sam’s shoulder.

Sam pulled back, horrified. “Mr Frodo . . . you’ve never been ungrateful. You’ve always been a good master and . . . and the best of friends.”

Frodo’s tears turned to laughter. “I notice you didn’t say I wasn’t grumpy! But I don’t mind, Sam dear. I couldn’t have had a better friend and I shall miss you.”

When Sam would have interjected Frodo forestalled him. “No! You go and make a good life for you and Rosie. I will have my own family to look forward to and I’ll not get in the way of yours.” He pulled back, standing firm and turning Sam around to face his pony. “Off with you, Sam lad, before I become grumpy.”

He couldn’t see whether Sam smiled at that remark as his friend clambered meekly back upon his pony. But when Sam turned to look down at him he was still crying. Frodo laid a hand upon his arm. 

“Goodbye, Sam dear.”

“Goodbye, Sir.”

Frodo smiled at the honorific and turned to Gandalf. “Make sure they get safely home, Gandalf. And thank you for all your care and kindness.”

“I will see them safely upon their road. Farewell, Frodo Baggins.”

With that, the travellers called a brief farewell to Lord Elrond, trotted their ponies across the shallow fords and, with one final wave, disappeared into the trees upon the far bank. Frodo allowed the elf to settle him back upon the tall horse and they turned back towards what would now be the hobbit’s home. He shivered as a cold chill ran through him and moved to stroke his stomach as he felt the babe shift uncomfortably too. 

Blinking in some confusion Frodo tried to discover what had happened to the sun that had felt so warm on his face when he had awoken earlier. A strange grey mist threatened to enclose him now and he was about to comment, when a sudden sharp and icy pain impaled his left shoulder. Frodo let out a long keening shriek of agony, before his breath expired and he was tumbled down into cruel and frigid blackness, only vaguely aware of the strong arms that caught him before he hit the murky waters of despair and loss.


	15. Chapter 15

“Listen to my voice, Frodo. Come back to the light.”

The voice was familiar, as were the words, and Frodo wanted to obey but the shadows held him fast. Icy claws scrabbled at his skin, fiery fingers stabbing into his already tortured flesh and he whimpered his pain, too weak now to even muster the breath to scream out his agony.

Terrifying faces burst out of the thick mist that coiled about him coldly. Eyes of glowing red, rimmed in flame winked out, only to be replaced by others of lurid yellow, their pupils slitted like a cats. Each baleful glare impaled him like a moth to a collector’s board and his body would not respond to feeble requests to move . . . even just to look away.

“Come back to the light, Frodo.” The voice held a note of command now, but the claws gripped like a vice and he was so, so weary. Frodo had struggled too long against the darkness and he had not the reserves of mind or body that he once had.

“Can’t.”

Had he spoken the word aloud or only thought it? He could not tell. When the calm voice was not there his ears were filled only with the shrill and taunting cackles of his captors.

Wait . . . there was another voice . . . fainter even than his own feeble whimpers. High pitched wails, laced with confusion and pain . . . desperate for succour . . . for release from this place of frost rimed fire. Frodo followed the sound until slowly, a form coalesced from the mist. A tiny naked figure lay curled in the darkness, eyes tight shut even as the small, pink-gummed mouth opened wide to cry its distress.

The other voice returned. “Come back to the light, Frodo Baggins, or your child will be lost.”

Words and image conjoined, touching his heart more readily than they had reached his mind. Throwing himself forward, Frodo struggled free of his bonds and fell bruisingly upon his knees at the side of the distraught little ball, gathering it up. The cries stopped for a moment and Frodo glanced down into wide blue eyes, before they screwed shut again and Calimore drew breath for another wail.

Frodo cast about in desperation, clutching his child to him. “Where? Show me the light!” he called frantically.

“Listen to my voice, Frodo.”

Calimore’s eyes flew open and he turned his head to Frodo’s left. There, a few steps away, was a soft glow. Frodo staggered upright and towards it, the icy claws still clutching . . . trying to snatch his child from him. But their attempts only made him struggle that much harder. They would not have Calimore. Dropping to his knees once more, he spent the last vestiges of his strength crawling into the warm pool of light, Calimore held secure in his arms when all else trembled in exhaustion.

00000

Frodo lay on his side, sucking air in frantic gulps. He was aware that his arms were wrapped tightly about his belly, that he was swathed in soft warmth and that a hand was rubbing soothing circles on his back, even as a larger one rested lightly upon his brow. He prised open leaden eyelids and it took him a moment to recognise the claret velvet that floated before him. Lord Elrond.

Taking in a deeper breath Frodo was calmed by a pleasant blend of scents . . . warm sandalwood, clean athelas and, from behind him, light lavender. Elrond’s voice drifted gently to his ears.

“Welcome back, Frodo. Sleep now.”

Frodo fought his body’s need to obey . . . lips barely able to form the question.

“Calimore?” he breathed.

“He is well.” 

Inhaling the comforting fragrances once more and letting out a long sigh, Frodo loosened his grip around his child and snuggled into the soft pillow beneath his cheek, drifting into warm and dreamless sleep.

00000000

Long fingers cradled the base of his head and warm, sweet liquid trickled slowly between Frodo’s slack lips. He swallowed reflexively and the parched tissues of his throat welcomed the moisture eagerly. Frodo blinked open sleepy eyes and tried to bring the world into focus as his mouth was filled again. For a while his mind refused to make sense of the blurry images and he concentrated instead upon accepting the soothing drink, feeling quite pleased when he managed to identify refreshing mint tea, much sweetened with honey.

The dark smudge before him grew clearer and settled into the ageless features of Lord Elrond, the dark curtain of silken hair sliding over his shoulder, blocking Frodo’s view of the rest of the room. As the last drops were accepted, Elrond lowered his charge’s head back into soft pillows and smaller hands laid a cool cloth across Frodo’s brow.

“Bilbo?”

His uncle’s face replaced the elf’s above him as Elrond settled himself in a chair, temporarily out of eyeline. Frodo quirked his mouth weakly and Bilbo’s lined features responded with a warm smile. 

“There’s my Frodo. Feeling a little better?”

Frodo licked dry lips. “I . . . I think so.”

He turned his head, seeking out the elven healer. “How long . . . how long has it been?”

Elrond’s face was filled with compassion. “You have been ill for only a day.”

“My baby?”

Elrond reached out a hand and laid it over Frodo’s swollen abdomen beneath the warm covers. For a moment his eyes grew distant, then they focussed clearly upon Frodo’s and there was no hint of deception in their cloud-grey depths.

“Your babe is well. He was in some distress earlier but there is no lasting hurt.”

“My dear lad. I thought I’d lost you both,” came Bilbo’s trembling voice.

Frodo tried to turn his head back to his uncle and gasped as the movement sent an echo of pain through his left shoulder. Elrond folded back the covers and laid a warm damp cloth upon the area of the old wound, the strong perfume of athelas easing Frodo’s mind as well as his hurt. 

“What happened? I remember the river and then . . . then there was mist and . . . and pain. I thought he had returned. That I had been stabbed again.” 

He was unable to quell a shudder and Bilbo’s hand came to rest upon his arm. Withdrawing the cloth and tucking the warm covers about his charge again, Elrond re-settled himself.

“Gandalf and I hoped you would be spared this but it is a year since your wounding at Amon Sul. I fear that such a wound bites deeper than flesh.”

Frodo felt tears building and closed his eyes, his hand fumbling for the small jewel on its chain about his neck. As soon as he touched Arwen’s gift he felt his mind calm, seeing her sweet face drifting before him, and noticing for the first time that her eyes were exactly the same shade of cloud-grey as her father’s.

Sighing, Frodo rolled his head back upon the pillow, finding Bilbo still seated on the bed at his side, his lined face mapped with worry. He looked up into those familiar blue-grey eyes.

“When I woke up . . . after . . . in Ithilien . . . I thought it was over. I hoped I could take up my life where I had left it. Then I realised that the world would never be the same again, because I was not the same. It seems I am never to find peace.”

Frodo brought his hand out of the covers and Bilbo grasped it firmly as his nephew began to cry. Elrond’s voice broke through the sorrow. 

“But you have your child . . . the light of your heart. You called him that yourself. And already he has brought you back from darkness.”

“That was your doing. Without you we would both have been lost. You called me back.”

“I called but it was not I who brought you back. I called you many times before you answered. It was only when you feared for your child that you fought to return to us.”

Frowning, Frodo tried to recapture nightmare images that he would rather forget. Yes. He had thought all strength gone . . . the battle lost . . . and then he had heard that innocent cry. Calimore deserved life and he fought to give it to him. But what of the next time? 

“Will . . . will this happen again?” he asked, fearful of the answer.

“I do not believe it will happen again before the birth. Beyond that I do not know. I do not think, now, that you will ever find peace here, although perhaps in the West you may find healing for your wounds. That path is still open to you if you wish to take it.”

“But what of Calimore? I will not leave him without a parent if I can help it. No child should be alone,” Frodo vowed, recollecting now the deep ache of his own parent’s absence. “Even if it means my death, here.”

Elrond cupped Frodo’s sweat-damp cheek in his hand. “The path to the West is open to all those who bore the trial of that terrible burden. I think that the past few hours more than qualifies your child for that road if you want him to walk it with you.”

Those words shone like a beacon in Frodo’s pain-shadowed heart. He could still have his dream. There truly was hope of happiness. Wise grey eyes noted the change and Elrond’s lips curved in a small smile, as he glanced towards the door. 

“But first you must birth this wonderful gift. To do that you must be strong and that will entail rest and lots of good food. Do you think you could manage that?”

Frodo surprised himself with a soft laugh. “Resting will be easy enough. I feel so weary that I could sleep for a week. Food? I’m not so sure about that at the moment.”

Elrond was spared the task of coaxing by Bilbo’s admonition. “Nonsense lad. You’re a hobbit. Don’t you worry, Elrond. I’ll make sure that he eats. I’ve had plenty of practice sorting out this lad before.” And with that the older hobbit beckoned forward an elf waiting nearby with a small tray. 

Frodo smiled drowsily and allowed himself to be arranged in his comfortable nest of pillows, secure in Elrond’s care and content in the warmth of his uncle’s love.


	16. Chapter 16

Arms aching, Frodo laid down the large tome, but the increasingly prominent swell of his stomach meant that he had to place it some distance along his legs, and having done that he now found that the small and intricate tengwar script was all but illegible. He slammed the book closed with a loud sigh and reached across to the bedside table for his drink.

Unfortunately, in rolling to his side, the ancient and beautiful volume slid off his legs. It was assisted in its decent to the floor by the slippery satin coverlet, landing with a very loud thud. In his panic, Frodo made a grab for it, the juice forgotten, and within moments the cup joined the book, splattering its contents all over the polished floor. At the end of his tether, Frodo let out a mild oath as he leaned uncomfortably over the edge of the bed, trying to retrieve the cup, at least.

To add to his discomfort, the babe protested all this jostling and gave a mighty kick just beneath Frodo’s right rib, resulting in a yelp from his parent. Letting go the bedside, Frodo clutched at his throbbing ribs. The resulting imbalance produced another yelp as he leaned over too far, and the unaccustomed weight of Frodo’s belly threatened to spill him from the bed. He watched in horror as the polished wood of the floor, with it’s dressing of spilt juice and the large book, rose up to meet him.

Suddenly, his motion was arrested and Frodo was caught in strong arms and righted amongst his pillows. Trembling, he clung with both hands to the arm of his rescuer.

“Calm yourself, Frodo. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Slow deep breaths. You are safe and your babe is unharmed. Breathe.”

Frodo followed Elrond’s instructions and felt his alarm fading as the elf continued to support him gently. When he finally released the strong arm he noted with some embarrassment that he had crushed the fine embroidered silk of Elrond’s shirt.

Once he was released, Elrond knelt down to retrieve both book and cup, using a cloth from the bedside table to mop up the spillage. Frodo watched, feeling his cheeks heighten in a blush as the elven lord cleaned up the mess. Elrond, however, showed no sign of distaste, simply setting all to rights, pouring Frodo a fresh drink in a clean cup and perching upon the edge of the mattress as he handed it over.

“Thank you,” the hobbit offered, sheepishly as he sipped, his efforts quickly halted by a sharp gasp as Calimore kicked in exactly the same place again. One thing at least was certain . . . Calimore had hobbit feet. Elrond’s hand came to rest unerringly upon the spot, his eyes growing distant for a moment, and Frodo sighed in relief as his baby turned, settling himself in a more comfortable position for both parent and child.

“I came to see if you were comfortable,” Elrond frowned. “I take it that you are not?” 

“I’m sorry, Lord Elrond. My arms were aching so I decided on a drink . . . then the book slipped . . . and the cup . . . then Calimore . . .”

The elf raised a hand to stem the garbled tide of explanation and his frown turned to a smile as he glanced at the cover of the book. “ ‘The Ainulindale’, and a particularly ancient version. I am impressed by your growing skills in translation.”

Frodo could not help but grimace. “I’ve little else to do at the moment.” He turned pleading blue eyes upon his host. “You’ve ordered me confined me to my bed for a week now.”

Elrond’s eyebrows rose as though in offence, but there was a note of amusement in his voice. “Do you not enjoy your surroundings? I ensured that you had one of the most elegant rooms in the house.”

Frodo felt brave enough to respond in like manner. “Twenty-three!”

This produced a faint smile and the slightest hint of confusion. “Twenty-three? Is this some new form of the riddle game that you and Bilbo have created?”

“No. It is the number of the leaves carved upon the wall opposite the foot of my bed.”

Elrond chuckled as he spared a glance at the offending wall. “Actually, there are twenty-four, but you would be forgiven for missing the one hidden behind that chest.”

Grinning at last, Frodo took a sip of his drink. “I may have found it, if I had been allowed to get up and investigate.” He put on his most pitiful face, the large blue eyes angled upward under thick dark lashes. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I really am feeling much better now, and I would love to go for a walk, or even just sit in another room,” he wheedled. He had not needed to use such tactics since he was a tweenager and he hoped he remembered how to do it correctly.

Elrond rose and Frodo was frightened that he may have gone just a little too far. However he need not have worried as, when Elrond turned at the door, he was still smiling. 

“Then it is well that I instructed them to lay out our luncheon in the library. You had better dress quickly if you wish to partake of it before it grows cold.”

With those words, he left and for several precious moments Frodo merely sat, open-mouthed. Then he giggled. He had been out-manoeuvred again.

00000

Frodo swallowed his mouthful of perfectly cooked mushroom and looked at Elrond across the arrangement of late blooming honeysuckle and ivy, that sprawled almost casually from the bowl in the centre of the table.

“I know we’re at the luncheon table and all . . . and it may not be considered a proper topic . . . and you can refuse to answer if you wish . . .” Having started, Frodo was unsure how to proceed and blushed deeply. For his part, Elrond laid down his fork and took up a delicately cut crystal glass of white wine, his steady gaze letting the hobbit know that he had his luncheon companion’s full attention.

Still, Frodo fumbled for the right words. He did not wish to appear childish. He had survived the rigours and hardships of the quest, after all. And yet Elrond waited patiently.

“When I was younger, at Brandy Hall.” He realised that the elf may not know his history. How much had Bilbo told him? This was getting complicated. Frodo sighed and tried again.

“I was quite young when my parents died and for several years I lived at Brandy Hall, in Buckland.” When Elrond nodded, he drew breath to continue. “I was quite shy at first and my favourite place was the library. I used to curl up in the window, behind the curtains if I didn’t want to be found.” Frodo grinned as he slipped into a memory he had thought torn from him. “If I sat really quiet, no-one knew I was there, and sometimes grown-ups would come into the room and start talking about things that young hobbits were not supposed to hear.” He gave Elrond a lopsided smile. “I was an overly curious hobbit even then.”

Elrond’s eyes returned his smile as he took a sip of wine. “Go on, Frodo. I have not yet heard anything unsuitable for table conversation.” 

Frodo took a gulp from his own glass before continuing. “Sometimes the ladies used to talk about . . . about . . . when they gave birth. I didn’t understand a lot at the time but one thing they all said was . . .” He downed half the glass in one gulp before rushing on. “They said it was very painful. Is . . . is it . . . does it hurt a lot?”

Setting down his glass and taking a little plain omelette on his fork, Elrond simply replied. “Yes,” before slipping the delicacy between his lips.

Frodo sat, blinking, the empty glass forgotten. “Oh.” This was an occasion when Frodo would rather Elrond had not been so honest in his reply.

Taking pity on him, the elf removed Frodo’s fingers from the glass, refilling it with apple juice before replacing it in the still open hand. “Slow sips, Frodo.”

The hobbit obeyed, mechanically, his mind still focussed on his memories of blood curdling conversations overheard from behind heavy velvet curtains on cold winter evenings. Elrond’s voice cut through his frightened reverie.

“If your gestation follows the pattern normal for a female, and I have little doubt that it will deviate on the evidence so far, you will birth your child in the same way as others have.

Your body will have to make adjustments as the time for birthing arrives and the muscle spasms that create these changes are often intense. In addition, once those changes have taken place you will have to push the child from your body.” 

The elven healer nodded at Frodo’s quite prominent stomach. “At least your babe appears to be of a normal size for a hobbit. Not overly large.”

Frodo dark brows drew together as he glanced down at what seemed to him to be an enormous mound of stomach. Not overly large? He had nearly another three months to go and already this child seemed too large to him. Trying hard not to blush, Frodo tried to visualise a baby’s head and shoulders being expelled through the tiny opening his curious fingers had investigated recently in the bath. His thoughts must have been clear on his face when he looked up, for Elrond smiled gently.

“Part of the change that your body will undergo is a softening and stretching of the opening of the birth canal. This makes the birthing easier but there will be pain.”

When he saw Frodo blanch he continued gently. “The pain usually comes in short spasms, with time for you to recover between. And with the correct breathing and training to relax your body, the pain can be dealt with.”

When Frodo still did not speak Elrond reached across the table, taking the Ringbearer’s maimed right hand in his and rubbing the small nub of his missing finger. “You, of all people, know that many good things in life come at a price. The pain will be for a short time only, and at the end of it you will hold your child in your arms.”

Frodo met his gaze and nodded. He had thought he could not continue after Moria, but he had. He had continued through his interrogation by Faramir, he had continued through the marshes, through the encounter with Shelob, through his incarceration in the tower, through Mordor and beyond. This time, there would be joy waiting for him at the other side of the pain. His empty life would be refilled. It would be worth the pain and indignity.

Indignity. A stray thought floated into his mind and Frodo suddenly could not resist the urge to giggle, the giggle grew up into a laugh, that went on and on. This was not hysteria but genuine amusement, and it was some minutes before he could master himself enough to explain to the somewhat perplexed elf what it was that he found so entertaining.

“I’m sorry, Lord Elrond.” Frodo wiped his eyes. “I have some very unpleasant relatives . . . the Sackville Baggins . . . and I just realised that Lobelia must have gone through a similar process to produce her son, Lotho. The image of Lobelia Sackville Baggins going through such indignity is almost more than anyone could cope with. If she can come through it, I certainly can.”


	17. Chapter 17

Frodo took a deep breath and tried to slow his heart down to something close to its normal speed as Elrond reached out to steady him. He had not been paying enough attention to the path ahead and he could hardly see his feet, beyond the swell of his belly. Indeed, if he had not been a hobbit it was likely that he would have been unable to see his feet at all, he noted sadly. As it was, Frodo expected to wave goodbye to his toes any day now.

He just could not seem to balance this huge swelling in front of his body and that was the third time that he had tripped, nearly falling, during today’s stroll. He was beginning to understand why Elrond had insisted that an elf accompany Frodo every time he took a walk in the gardens. However did elven ladies manage to balance such an encumbrance upon their small delicate feet? But then, elves were so graceful. Frodo sighed, rubbing the small of his back and wincing. At the moment he was anything but graceful. Pausing, he rocked from side to side, trying to relieve the pain in his lower back. It didn’t work and he let out another sigh as he caught up with Elrond, who was waiting patiently a couple of steps ahead of him.

“We have nearly arrived back at the house, Frodo. It is around the next bend in the path.”

“Thank goodness. I really think we should stop these walks. I’m getting so huge and the weather is turning cold,” the hobbit grumbled.

Elrond frowned. “I have explained this to you before. If you keep yourself fit in the months before the birth your muscles will be better prepared to cope with the stresses of the labour.”

Frodo grimaced and continued to walk. Walk? It was more like a waddle, he grumbled silently. He had always been light upon his feet . . . the lasses had practically fought to dance with him at party’s. Now he waddled like a large, ungainly duck. Frodo Baggins did not like this aspect of pregnancy at all . . . in fact he was beginning to wish that the whole thing would just be over and done with. It was lovely, feeling Calimore moving within him, but he seemed to have been like this for so long. Elrond had assured him that there would be at least another two months of this and that during that time his girth would continue to expand.

Even those clothes that had been provided by Arwen and Eowyn were becoming snug and Elrond had arranged for a few new items to be made. Frodo had stared at the breeches in horror when he saw the fully expanded waist. Surely he could not grow that big? He had worn them today, however, along with one of the newer, warmer shirts (he had ignored the embroidery . . . pride giving way to comfort) and the lovely fur-lined overmantle, that he tugged closer as a stray breeze teased at the fastenings.

Once indoors, Elrond helped him out of the mantle and insisted upon escorting Frodo back to his chamber. Stepping into the room, Frodo paused.

The fire had been restoked and now blazed redly in the hearth. But what made him stare was the pile of cushions scattered on the floor before it, and the heavily padded stool planted in their centre. He glanced at Elrond in query as the elf crossed to the table, on which was stored a selection of dilute oils that he had instructed Frodo to use when bathing.

“Please remove your shirt and braces, Frodo, and settle yourself on your knees upon the cushions, resting your head upon your folded arms atop the stool.”

He glanced back, to find Frodo still staring curiously at the cushions. Returning with a vial of oil, Elrond knelt before his charge and started picking at the tiny buttons on the soft woollen shirt. Frodo merely looked at him and swallowed, a little uncertain of what he was to be subjected to now. He had endured an examination only a few days ago. Elrond eased Frodo out of his shirt.

“Your back has been hurting, has it not? A light massage will help, and in your present condition, lying upon your stomach on the floor or on a mattress would be somewhat difficult.”

Frodo relaxed at last and slipped his braces from his shoulders, accepting Elrond’s assistance to assume the requested position. He had to admit that the slight tilting forward of his body was rather comfortable and was made even more so when the elven healer slipped a cushion beneath his ankles and others beneath his stomach. 

Warm and gentle hands, redolent of lavender, began to glide up and down the length of his spine in slow sweeping motions and then moved down to concentrate upon the area about his waist and the top of his buttocks. 

Frodo took a deep, contented breath as a lost memory popped to the forefront of his mind. Aunt Esmeralda had given him a back rub once, when he had fallen out of a tree at the age of sixteen. She, however, had used a foul smelling liniment and her movements had been brisk and firm. It had eased his aches but it had not felt like this.

He half-lidded his eyes in dreamy compliance as deft fingers worked their magic upon muscles pulled tight from trying to balance the unaccustomed weight. At this moment he would have been willing to believe every tale of elven magic he had ever heard, as Elrond isolated each individual muscle and soothed it gently into relaxation. Frodo felt like a melting wax candle as he draped ever more bonelessly over the cushioned stool. The perfume of lavender reminded him of Bilbo and Bag End and the firelight’s hypnotic dance soothed his eyes, until he could resist no longer and let them slide all the way shut. Maybe, if he rested them for just a moment . . . 

By the time Elrond carried him gently to the bed, removing the last of his clothing and dressing him in a warmed nightshirt, Frodo was deeply asleep and he only snuggled more closely into his pillow as the blankets were tucked about him.

00000

“Frodo, lad. Come on now. Time for dinner.”

Frodo yawned and stretched, blinking open drowsy eyes to find Bilbo’s smiling face almost level with his own where it lay upon the pillows of the big bed. 

As he levered himself upward the younger hobbit tried to reconstruct the events that had led to him being in bed and glanced across at the fire, to find that all the cushions had been replaced by a hobbit-height table and two chairs. The table groaned beneath the weight of covered dishes arranged about an intricately branched candelabra, and the delicious smells of roast chicken and honeyed vegetables drifted to Frodo, making his stomach growl loudly in anticipation. Bilbo’s smile widened into a grin as he held out Frodo’s dressing gown.

“I think you’d better climb out of that bed, before the whole of Rivendell comes to see what that strange rumbling sound is.”

Giggling lightly, Frodo pushed back the covers, setting his feet upon the top step before pausing to stretch and realising, with great relief, that his back no longer ached for the first time in nearly four weeks. He fastened his dressing gown as he settled himself at the table before the warm fire and he and Bilbo began to delightedly explore the contents of the various dishes laid out.

Frodo ignored his uncle’s questioning glance when a search of the deserts revealed some delicately cut cheese and strawberry conserve sandwiches. For his part, Bilbo made no comment as he watched Frodo finish off the fine meal with several of the sandwiches, although he did grimace slightly at his nephew’s apparent relish of the strange combination.

Frodo was feeling very comfortably full and just contemplating one last sandwich when a strange but powerful feeling in his swollen belly made his pause and gasp in alarm. Bilbo noticed at once.

“What is it, lad?”

Frodo shook his head, concentrating upon the sensation. It was not his bowels. He was a hobbit, after all, and he was acquainted intimately with every well-used inch of his alimentary canal. This was a strange tightening, squeezing of something in his abdomen . . . not painful, exactly, but rather disconcerting. 

“Frodo?” 

Was he about to deliver the baby? Elrond had said that there were several weeks to go. If this was a birthing contraction it was not as bad as he had been led to believe. He could cope with this. 

“Frodo, lad?”

But if it was early . . . would the baby be all right? Gradually, the squeezing tension eased and faded away.

“Frodo . . . speak to me. What’s happening?” There was a rising edge of panic in Bilbo’s voice now and Frodo realised that it was not the first time he had been addressed. He grasped his stomach, waiting for the sensation to return.

“I . . . I think . . . Elrond . . . I need to see Lord Elrond,” he whispered.

For someone of his years, Bilbo managed to cross the room with considerable alacrity. 

“I’m on my way, Frodo. Don’t you go anywhere!”

Frodo did not need that last instruction. He had already decided that he was staying right where he was until the healer arrived.

00000

Elrond knelt before his patient, his large hands exploring gently the mound of belly. After several, heart-thumping moments, Frodo let out his breath as he saw calm certainty in the elf’s serene face.

“A squeezing, tightening sensation you say?”

Frodo nodded. “Am I about to give birth?”

Elrond settled back on his heels. “Do you remember me telling you that your body would go through some further changes as you grew nearer the end of your term?”

Frodo’s heart speeded up again. “Yes. It isn’t time, is it?”

A small smile played at the corners of Elrond’s lips. “No, Frodo. It is not. But your body is practising for the event. The muscles you felt contracting are the ones that will help to expel the child from your body. It is a very good sign and one I have been waiting for. I was not entirely sure that your male body would grow the necessary muscles but it appears that this circumstance has been anticipated.”

Anticipated. Frodo tried to digest this information. Who had anticipated it? The Ring . . . or someone else? He pushed the thought away. There was too much to consider and Elrond had said that this was a good sign. His body seemed to be going to an awful lot of trouble to accommodate his child. 

Looking down at the changed contours of his frame he paused a moment before asking, “Lord Elrond when, I mean after the birth, will I go back to normal? Not just my shape. I mean all of me? Will I always have this . . . these other organs?”

Elrond arranged himself, cross-legged, upon the floor by Frodo’s chair. It should have looked incongruous, but Elrond managed to make it look elegant. 

“I do not know, Frodo. If your body has been given the capacity to grow them, I would not be surprised if it also had the capacity to dispose of them. Although, if you wish to feed your child you will need to retain some, for a while at least.”

Frodo glanced across at his uncle when he heard a slight intake of breath from him and Elrond turned towards the old hobbit. These thoughts had obviously not occurred to Bilbo. Before Frodo could apologise for dragging his uncle into this, Elrond spoke up.

“Frodo will need someone who he knows and trusts, to support him both physically and mentally through the birthing. Elrohir and I will deal with the medical aspects but he will need someone to help him focus through the pain.”

Bilbo looked past the elf to his nephew, waiting silently in the opposing chair. “I have always tried to be there for Frodo when he needed me. If he is happy with the arrangement, I see no reason not to be there for him now.”

“It will be a trying time for both Frodo and his helper,” Elrond warned, before Frodo could reply.

Bilbo was the one of the two people in the world Frodo knew he would be comfortable with during the difficult event. But his uncle was very old now, and not as physically able as he once was. Elrond had led him to believe that it would be physically exhausting for Frodo. Would it be fair to put Bilbo through this stress? Perhaps Sam could come back? But then, Sam had already written to his master of the trouble with Saruman that they had quelled upon their return. Frodo needed to know that his beloved Shire was in good hands and this would be a bad winter for them. Bilbo seemed to sense his thoughts.

“I’m sure Sam or one of your cousins would come if you’d prefer. But I still feel a little responsible, in a way, and I would like to be there to see little Calimore into the world. I’m not as strong as I was but I’m willing, lad.”

Frodo glanced across to Elrond and saw a slight nod of approval.

“Elrohir or I can help with the physical support, but I will need to coach you both through the sequence of events and techniques to maintain your breathing. The more preparation you do, the calmer you will remain and that will make the pain easier to bear.”

“Thank you, Bilbo. I would dearly love to have you with me.”

“Well. That’s settled then.” Bilbo winked. “Having sat with a few prospective fathers over the years, however, it’s been my experience that the ladies have no trouble breathing . . . at least I always assumed so from the volume of their yells.”

His comment was met with a somewhat hesitant laugh from Frodo.


	18. Chapter 18

His mind upon the prospect of reading the small book of verse tucked beneath his arm, it took a moment for Frodo to notice that there was something different about his room when he entered. Standing in the centre of the spacious chamber he turned a slow circle. There. Why did he not remember there being a door before? Then he spotted the carefully folded cloth on the floor at its side. Because it had been hidden by a tapestry. But why uncover it now?

Setting aside the forgotten book, Frodo stepped up and touched the handle experimentally, surprised when it turned easily in his tentative grasp. He could hear movement beyond and soft voices. When he recognised one of them as belonging to Bilbo he opened the door wider and four sets of eyes turned towards him in surprise.

Frodo was about to apologise for the intrusion upon Elrond, Elrohir, Elladan and Bilbo, when his mind began to register the contents of the small bright room. This was very obviously a nursery, its pail yellow walls adorned with pictures of birds and butterflies, trees and flowers. Frodo’s hands slipped up to his mouth, to cover the quivering of his chin, but they could not hide the tears that slid down his cheeks and Elrond led him gently to a chair. The hobbit was guided down and Elrohir handed over a small cup of water and encouraged Frodo to sip.

Bilbo was at his side in a moment, rubbing his nephew’s back. “Now, now, lad. What’s all this? What ever has upset you? We thought you’d be happy. Although we had intended to have it all finished before you got back from your walk with Glorfindel. I’m afraid you caught us all unprepared. We weren’t expecting you back just yet.”

“It started to rain, so we went to the library. I wanted a book from one of the top shelves and Glorfindel offered to fetch it for me. We had intended to stay and talk for a while but he was called away to attend to something and I decided to return to my room.” He glanced down to where Bilbo’s hand rested upon his knee. “What’s that?”

His uncle held up the small white article and Frodo saw at once that it was a baby’s night-gown. Of plain white linen, it was embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots around the neck and hem. Frodo smiled as he handed the empty cup back to Elrohir and took the gown from Bilbo’s fingers. 

“It’s beautiful. Wherever did you get clothing small enough for a hobbit babe in Rivendell?”

Elrond’s voice drifted to him from where he now stood with his sons in the centre of the room. “We did not. The clothing arrived yesterday, with this message.” He handed over an envelope and Frodo opened it with trembling fingers, recognising the over-neat handwriting of Sam at once.

“Dear Mr Frodo,

I hope you are feeling well. I am well and Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin send their regards.

You know what things are like here and I am sorry that we had to tell you of it but we are pulling everything back together again so you should not worry about us. Hobbits are strong folk and we will come through.

Me and Rose Cotton are going to be wed next May. I wish you could be here to see it but you will have other things to take care of by then. I hope you do not mind that I told my Rosie about you, but I did not want any secrets between us when we start out and she wanted to know why you had not come back with the rest of us. She is worse than Mr Merry for getting secrets out of me.

Anyway. When I told her she went all quiet and I was worried. Then a few days ago she hands me this box. Seems she’s been working on these for you for weeks. She says that the elves will likely make you some things but they will be too fine for a hobbit babe. Rosie says a hobbit should have good plain, no-nonsense clothes. I hope Master Elrond will not take offence at that. She did insist on the embroidery though. She says it reminds her of the colour of your eyes. 

Should I be jealous, Mr Frodo? Never you worry, sir. I am only joking with you. My Rosie is as true as can be, but she sees everything. She’s not going to let me get away with much. Not that I intend to give her any need to.

When I showed them clothes to Master Merry, him and Pippin got together and came up with the idea of sending you some proper hobbit things so that your lad can see what the Shire is like. Gandalf is helping us get them to you and I hope they arrive in good order.

You will know the chest of drawers. We found them when we were cleaning out Bag End. I think they used to be in Mr Bilbo’s bedroom. Merry and Pippin had to clean them up a bit and give them a good polish but they were not damaged and we thought they would remind you of home.”

Frodo looked about the room and found them by the wall. They were indeed Bilbo’s old drawers, the ones he used to keep his waistcoats and shirts in. The top drawer was ajar and Frodo could see that it was now filled with baby clothes. He turned back to the letter.

“I do not know how to thank you for letting me and Rosie have Bag End, now that Mistress Lobelia don’t want it. The lady says it holds bad memories for her but it only holds good ones for me. Happy times, when you and Mr Bilbo lived there. Of course, Rosie can hardly wait to move in but it will need a lot of work yet. She says she’s never seen a place so big and reckons that by the time she’s got from one end to the other with a duster it will be time to start all over again. 

The rocking chair is from me. It was my Mam’s. Gaffer says she nursed all us children in it and he wanted me and Rosie to have it when we got wed. But we talked about it and Rosie said that she had one from her Mam that she had been promised and that elves would maybe never think of such a comfy thing. And we wanted you to have something to make it home for you and to remember us by. So I hope you won’t be offended by the giving of it.”

 

For the first time, Frodo realised what he was sitting in and he leaned back, feeling the chair move and hearing the rockers creak softly as they rolled back and forth on the rug. He let the paper fall to his lap with the night-gown and ran his hands over the smooth, polished wood of the arms. The width of the seat was perfect to accommodate his wide girth, just the right height for climbing in and out of, and he was pleased to see that the faded cushions tied to seat and back had not been replaced. His eyes were misted with tears when he took up the letter once more.

“It is getting late in the year and the weather is closing in a bit but you know that if you want any of us to be there with you for the birthing, you only have to ask and we will get there. No matter what the weather

We all send our love to you and Mr Bilbo and your little one. You are in our thoughts every day.

Yours truly,

Sam Gamgee.”

 

Accepting the handkerchief his uncle offered, Frodo wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

“How did I ever deserve such dear sweet friends as these?”

“Simply by being you, lad,” Bilbo replied, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Frodo’s ear. “And there’s not just them that have sent presents. Why don’t you take a good walk around?”

Frodo accepted Bilbo’s help to ease his bulk out of the chair, unconsciously stroking the dark wood of the railed back as he looked about. Elrohir and Elladan had slipped from the room at some time during his reading of the letter and it was Elrond who nodded towards a cradle before the hearth.

The hobbit moved closer, admiring the beautiful carving in the honey coloured wood of its sides and rockers. He recognised at once the symbol of the White Tree, intertwined with ivy leaves and elanor blossom. The cradle was the perfect size for a hobbit babe and had a canopy and covers of the finest deep blue silks and satins, sprinkled liberally with stars. A small note nestled between the legs of a tiny stuffed toy horse upon the down filled quilt and Frodo lifted it, guessing already who had created the gift.

 

“Dearest Frodo,

We trust that this child will bring you happiness and healing and this gift has been made by our own hands in a poor attempt to show just how much you are loved.

Aragorn, Arwen, Faramir, Eowyn.”

 

Against another wall a small bed had been set, with removable bars for when Calimore grew older. The wood was pale as the moon and as smooth as satin and Frodo recognised at once the delicate work of the elves of Lothlorien. It too, was dressed in soft quilts of the finest embroidered fabrics and lying upon the pillow was a small bunch of dried elanor flowers, tied with a silk ribbon.

A tiny flash of light caught Frodo’s eye and drew him to the window, where a delicate creation of coloured crystals twirled on fine mithril chains in the slightest breath of air, sending glinting rainbows of colour dancing about the room from the late autumn sun. He glanced at Elrond in query and the elf smiled. 

“From Master Gimli.”

The elven lord brought out a small box from behind his back. “And this arrived today.”

Frodo recognised the small oak leaf insignia of the Legolas’ family on the lid and opened it slowly. Inside was a tiny, carved wooden baby’s rattle. The note beneath it was simple.

 

“May your ears be filled with only happy music. Legolas.”

 

Frodo looked slowly about, trying to memorise every tiny detail and hold it in his heart. He was surrounded by the physical outpouring of his friend’s love and he wrapped it around himself like a warm blanket. All fear about his ability to birth his child was washed gently away by their faith that he would one day be sitting with Calimore in his arms, in this room.


	19. Chapter 19

Frodo’s hand circled his huge stomach, stroking the unborn child unconsciously, his eyes held by the flash and sparkle of crystals in the midday sun, although it was not crystals that he saw. In his mind’s eye he was watching a wide, quietly flowing river. Sunlight tipped a group of expanding ripples, betraying the presence of several fish just below the surface.

His mother’s soft laugh drifted from somewhere behind him, swiftly followed by his father’s amused yelp as she smacked his hand. Frodo smiled and popped another strawberry in his mouth, his fingers pink and sticky with the juice. Doubtless, Papa had tried to steal a kiss. He was always doing that. Many times, when Mama was baking, her hands deep in an elastic ball of bread dough, Frodo had been forced to hold in a grin as he watched Papa sneak up behind her to plant a kiss on her neck. They loved each other very much and yet there was always plenty of love and more to spare for their son.

“I should have known I’d find you here.”

Frodo blinked back to the present. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. Did you say something?”

His uncle shook his head. “You always were a one for wool gathering, Frodo Baggins. I’ve been waiting for you this last half-hour. You were supposed to come to my room so that we could practice your breathing exercises. I should have known you’d be in the nursery. You want to be careful, lad. You’re going to see more than enough of this room over the next year or two. At this rate you’ll be sick of the sight of it before the baby is even born.” 

Frodo let his gaze caress each lovingly created item in the room. “Oh, I very much doubt that, Bilbo.”

Facing east, the room caught the best of the morning sun and the older hobbit shook his head as he crossed the sun-warmed floor. “Have you been for your walk yet?” Bilbo glanced down at his nephew’s feet and sighed. “No. I can see not. Your ankles look like balloons lad and if Lord Elrond sees them you’ll catch it. If you’re going to sit in that rocker for hours on end at least rock in it. That would help to stop your ankles swelling.” 

He reached out a hand to help Frodo ease his bulk out of the chair and the younger hobbit tried, in vain, to catch a glimpse of the aforementioned portions of his body. He did not really need to see them however, because he could feel the bloated stiffness of them as soon as he tried to take a step, and Bilbo had to slip an arm about his waist to help him.

“I do seem to be doing a lot of daydreaming lately, don’t I? But it’s good daydreaming, Bilbo. It’s not memories of the journey.” He allowed his uncle to lead him out of the room and down the hallway. “My memories are coming back, Bilbo. Oh, not just the pictures like before, the ones that seemed to belong to someone else. I can feel these, touch them. They’re real. They’re mine . . . a part of me.”

Bilbo paused and turned his nephew to face him, looking into the softly glowing face and finding the relaxed smile that he had thought never to see again. “When did this start?” he breathed, tears beginning to gather.

“I don’t know. A few months ago I suppose. It was very slow at first, just little flashes of emotion and memory, but in these past two or three weeks they’ve been getting more and more frequent. It’s as though they were all behind a big pane of glass and somewhere a crack has developed and is getting wider and wider.”

The glow had become a light and the smile a grin and Bilbo gathered his nephew close, or at least as close as he could in Frodo’s present state, in a warm hug. 

“Oh, my lad. I’m so glad. I have been so worried for you.”

“I don’t think this would have happened without Calimore, Uncle. I think he has brought changes to more than my body. I feel so . . . so peaceful.”

Bilbo slipped an arm about his waist and started the two of them walking again, his gruff voice betraying his emotion although his words were very matter-of-fact.

“Yes, well. I don’t think you’ll be feeling very peaceful if Lord Elrond discovers you haven’t been for your walk or that we haven’t practised your breathing. How about us trying to do both at once? We’ll go for a stroll in the long gallery. Now then . . . in through your nose and out through mouth . . . nice and slow . . . A good open and relaxed mouth.”

By the time Elrond found them, after luncheon, Frodo’s ankles had returned to something close to their normal proportions. The hobbits were sitting either side of the fire in Bilbo’s room, trying not to laugh as their mirrored faces looked for all the world like a couple of ornamental carp in a pond, trying to relax their mouths as they breathed out. So amused were they, in fact, that the elf had been standing, arms folded and face slightly perplexed, for some minutes before they noticed him. At which point, both hobbits turned bright red and dissolved into even more laughter. Elrond suspected that they would have gone on for several minutes more if Frodo had not put his hand to his stomach and sighed.

“Here I go again.” His laughter ceased as he remembered to do as the healer had advised and use the opportunity to rehearse his breathing throughout the tightening. Bilbo dried his eyes while he waited and by the time Frodo refocused sobriety had returned. Elrond pulled up one of the larger chairs and sat between them.

“When I entered I was beginning to wonder whether you had actually been practising your breathing at all. I am pleased to see that you have.” As he spoke he bent to lift Frodo’s ankles and slide a footstool beneath them. His sensitive fingers did not fail to note the spongy feel of them. “You should walk a little more this afternoon or you may find yourself confined to your bed for the rest of your term. You cannot afford to let your ankles become swollen. You have difficulties enough, balancing.”

Frodo nodded. “I don’t know why more ladies don’t tumble when they’re in this condition.”

“Most find the last two months trying and some are prone to stumble. You are at even more of a disadvantage than they, in that you have not the same bone structure as a female. Your hips are narrower and that gives you a different centre of balance, making you more liable to fall with this uneven weight distribution. You must take extra care, but you must also exercise.”

Frodo pinked when the healer asked his next question and Bilbo tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smile behind a cough.

“Have your bowel movements been regular?”

“Why do you ask that,” Frodo replied quickly, suspecting that the elf already knew the answer.

“I do not wish to pry, Frodo,” Elrond smiled. “Your babe is taking up a great deal of space in your abdomen now and food is moving more slowly through your gut so that your body makes best use of the nutrition. Sometimes that makes ladies a little constipated and that can lead to a great deal of discomfort, which I can easily remedy if I am advised of it. Now . . . have your bowel movements been regular?”

Frodo squirmed a little. “Well, actually. Not really, not lately.”

Elrond held out his hand, opening it to reveal a tiny sealed vial in his palm. It appeared to be filled with some sort of oil and Frodo picked it up curiously. .

“Bilbo, I believe Frodo will require a spoonful of honey in a moment. Would you be good enough to fetch it from the table?”

The older hobbit complied at once and Frodo glanced up at Elrond in concern. “Does it taste very nasty?” He broke the seal and sniffed tentatively, reeling back in alarm at the smell that assailed his nostrils. “Do I have to take it? I’m not terribly uncomfortable.”

Bilbo returned and stood beside his nephew, filling a spoon with honey and trying desperately to stop it drizzling off the edges.

Elrond’s tone was sympathetic. “I know it smells and tastes awful but it is the most effective remedy and it will cause no distress to the babe. Come now. Hold your breath and it will be downed in two swallows. Bilbo is at the ready with honey.”

Frodo supposed he had tasted worse, although those were memories he would rather not be reminded of. He glanced down at his over-ripe belly. “The things I do for you,” he murmured, before taking a deep breath and swallowing the vile oil. He shuddered involuntarily as it went down and leaned forward eagerly for the honey. When he finally had enough control of his facial muscles to speak he turned to Elrond accusingly.

“Next time you ask me that question I think I may lie.”

Elrond merely smiled softly and retrieved the empty vial, from where it was still clutched tightly in Frodo’s fingers. “I do not think that you will. I will leave you to your practising now . . . and do not forget to take that walk. I will send Elrohir to accompany you.”

Frodo sank back in his chair and stared worriedly at the fire. He had not realised that having a baby was such hard work.

00000

The fire in the hearth was dying down and Frodo considered getting up to add another log. He wondered if it died down every night at this time. It could not be more than a couple of hours past midnight and he could not remember ever waking up to find embers in the grate in the morning. Sam would call it, “Elven Magic” but Frodo preferred to think that perhaps someone came in while he slept and tended it. Perhaps tonight he would find out who, although he would rather not. He would much rather be asleep. 

He had gone to bed several hours ago, tired and wanting desperately to sleep but his body refused to let him. Breathing was difficult, especially with the burning pain in his chest. Once more, he tried to roll over onto his side but he could not spare a hand to hold the blankets and quilts away from him and when he got there he found a big wad of covers constricting him. Frustrated, he rolled onto his back again, cursing the burning cramping pain that would not let him sleep. He should not have eaten cheese and strawberry jam sandwiches for supper. Whimpering in shear frustration, he tried in vain to take a deep breath.

The door to his room opened silently and Frodo was surprised to see Lord Elrond enter. The elf crossed to the hearth first, loosening the embers with a poker and adding a couple more logs, before dusting his hands and turning to the bed. His eyebrows rose when he found Frodo watching him.

“Good evening Frodo. Are you having difficulty sleeping?” He laid a gentle hand upon the hobbit’s brow, checking for any signs of fever.

“Heartburn,” Frodo replied shortly. “Do you visit me every night?”

Elrond checked the contents of the bedside table. “I call in every evening before retiring. You are usually deeply asleep.” He found the glass of milk that normally resided there and moved to help Frodo sit up. “Here. Drink this. It will help to counteract the acid.”

About to take a sip, Frodo blinked up at the healer in horror. “Acid! Where did that come from?”

Elrond settled himself upon the edge of the bed and slipped a finger beneath the glass to lift it to Frodo’s lips. “Your baby is pushing upward on your internal organs and some of the changes in your body that soften the entrance to your birth canal can affect other organs as well. Heartburn is caused by acid being forced up into the tube that leads from your mouth to your stomach.”

“I have acid in my stomach?” Now he definitely knew he should not have eaten those sandwiches.

Elrond raised one brow and glanced at the book of poetry on the table. “You would perhaps have been better served by your reading habits if you had chosen books on anatomy, rather than poetry. 

Your body produces acid that is used by your stomach to break up the food you eat. It dissolves out the elements you need and the unused portion is expelled through your back passage.”

Frodo relaxed a little. “My goodness. I had no idea all that went on inside when I ate my dinner. No wonder it gets so noisy in there sometimes. It could almost put a person off eating.”

His comment raised a soft chuckle from Elrond. “I think it would take a great deal more than that to dissuade a hobbit from eating.

I am reluctant to give you any medication to relieve the heartburn. You share the same blood with your baby at the moment and anything I give you will also reach him. Just as I would not give you the same amount of medicine that I would give a man, so it would not be safe to give your babe the same dose that I would need to give you. You can help yourself, however.

You should eat a little and often. At least half of that instruction should be easy for a hobbit to follow. Drink plenty of milk, as that will help to counteract the acid. And from now on you should not sleep flat on your back. That will benefit you in other ways, too.”

Finishing his milk, Frodo handed back the empty glass. Elrond pulled back the covers and helped Frodo turn onto his side. A cushion was slipped beneath the swollen abdomen and a pillow against his back. Then Elrond drew the covers back over him, smoothing out the creases. Frodo sighed in blessed relief, comfortable at last.

“Thank you, Lord Elrond.” He smiled and stroked the enormous dome of his belly. “Will it be much longer, do you think?”

“I would expect the babe to arrive at Yule under normal circumstances, but in this case we cannot afford to make too many assumptions. Yours is hardly a normal circumstance. Please do not hesitate to send for me if you feel any change in your condition.” He placed a little hand bell within Frodo’s reach on the table. “If you have no other questions you should try to sleep. I will leave instructions for them not to wake you too early in the morning.”

Frodo smiled gratefully. “Lord Elrond, thank you for your care. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You’ve helped me stay calm and actually enjoy what could have been a very frightening experience. I will never be able to repay your kindness to me.”

Rising, the Lord of Imladris surprised Frodo by bowing low. “It has been my honour and pleasure. There is no debt to repay, but would you do me one kindness in return?”

“Of course. Whatever you ask.” 

“Please stop calling me, Lord Elrond. In a few weeks you will have no time to bother with such formalities so let us dispense with them today. My name is Elrond. I am not your Lord. I am your healer and, if you will permit me, your friend.”

Frodo could not help the grin that broke out on his face. “I am proud to consider you a friend . . . Elrond.”

“Thank you . . . Frodo. Now go to sleep.” He turned and was gone in a swirl of dark robes and a light waft of calming sandalwood. 

Feeling Calimore move gently within him, Frodo snuggled into his pillows, comfortable at last until . . . 

“Oh bother!”

He levered himself up, wondering if they had remembered to leave a pot beneath his bed so that he did not have to walk all the way to the privy.


	20. Chapter 20

Frodo laid the tiny clothes out in small heaps on top of the chest of drawers. He had been feeling the need to sort through them for days but a vague back ache and more frequent than usual cramps had made it impossible to settle for any length of time this morning. Something to do. That’s what he needed.

To those provided by Rose, several more gowns and shawls had been gifted by various elves of Imladris. They were very beautiful but Frodo placed them at the bottom of the heaps. They were so delicate that he would be terrified of tearing them. Once he had the garments sorted to his liking he replaced them in the drawer. Gowns to the left, knitted articles in the centre and shawls and bonnets to the right. They needed to be exactly where he could put his hands on them. Having done that he smiled, smoothing the softly padded top of the chest. Elrond had arranged for a removable unit to be added, with low padded sides and a soft pillow as a mattress. It would be a safe place to change Calimore.

On a small table to one side were salves, lotions and powders and Frodo began to re-arrange those, pausing for a moment and breathing slowly through it as his stomach cramped again. At least his babe had been more settled these past few days. He patted the enormous mound of his stomach and smiled. Today was a good day. He even seemed to be able to breath more easily. Now if the backache would just go away. 

Elrond had told him to just ask if he needed anything and Frodo wondered if the healer would think him too demanding if he requested another of those lovely back massages. Perhaps a gentle stroll through the house would help? But then, his legs ached a little today . . . not surprising with all the weight he was carrying about on them. If he did go for a walk, though, he may encounter Elrond and be able to ask more casually about the massage.

Yes. A stroll . . . after he had been to the privy. Elrond would certainly not need to dose him with that awful oil today. This was the third time this morning. He decided that was something he would not mention to the elf as it would probably only result in him being made to swallow some other foul concoction.

Some time later he found Bilbo in the library. The wrinkled features lined up to form a wide grin as he watched his nephew waddle slowly into the chamber. Actually, it was more a sort of rolling gait, the elder hobbit mused.

“Hello my lad. What brings you here? I thought you weren’t due to take your walk until after second breakfast.”

Frodo blinked in surprise. What time had he got up? It had been dark but he had never thought to check the time. The winter mornings dawned so late now. He glanced about the room, decked with holly and ivy for the coming Yule celebrations. The room smelled of green and growing things, instead of leather bindings and paper, for once . . . not that he minded leather and paper . . . His mind drifted off on its own.

“Frodo? You’re wool gathering again.” Bilbo touched his arm to bring his nephew back to him. "Have you even had first breakfast yet?”

Frodo’s intended reply turned into a sigh as yet another mild cramp took him and he breathed through it automatically. Bilbo waited patiently. He was well used to these by now. There were usually two or three a day. When Frodo’s bright blue eyes re-focussed on him Bilbo asked again.

“Have you eaten yet, today?”

“No.” Frodo replied vaguely . . . wishing that he could find some way to walk away from the nagging ache in his lower back. He turned away from his uncle and towards the long windows. Outside, it was raining and the trees were all bare of leaves but Imladris still seemed to look stately and elegant, even in the grey light of this winter day.

Bilbo followed him, exasperatedly. “Why ever not? You know that Elrond said you should make sure that you eat and drink a little and often. And, good gracious lad, you are a hobbit.” He chuckled. “What sort of an example are you setting for that little lad?”

His uncle’s nagging was beginning to annoy him. He was not hungry. Why did everyone insist on trying to feed him? Frodo would not have been at all surprised if, having given birth to his child, he remained the same size. Perhaps most of this heavy lump at the front of his body was just “good hobbit roundness”, as his uncle would say.

Bilbo persisted, laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Frodo? Breakfast?”

Too much. It was too much. Frodo shrugged off the hand and stomped, or at least tried to, back to the centre of the large room.

“For goodness sake, Bilbo. Will you please stop pestering. I am simply not hungry. And I am not a tweenager to be pushed and prodded into compliance. I would have thought that this . . .” He waved at his ever-ripening stomach. “Was evidence enough of that! Oh blast!”

Frodo started his breathing again as another slight cramp took him, postponing the rest of his tirade until it passed. To his surprise, Bilbo did not shout back. Instead a gentle hand came to rest in the small of Frodo’s back, rubbing in circles. 

“You are quite right. Why don’t I walk you back to your room and you can sit down for a little while? I’ll find Elrond and tell him you’re feeling a little out of sorts today.”

Even though he could feel a slight edge of tension in Bilbo’s voice, Frodo sagged against him a little in relief as he was turned back towards the hallway. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. I didn’t mean to shout. I don’t know what’s the matter with me this morning. I was looking for Elrond because my back aches and I forgot about breakfast. Is it very late?”

“No lad. I’ll get you some broth . . . something nice and light . . . and we’ll call this, mid-breakfast,” Bilbo soothed as he led his nephew back to the warm and comfortable bedroom. Once there, he propped Frodo up in his bed with a glass of milk and tucked a woollen rug about his legs. “There, now. That’s better, isn’t it?”

The younger hobbit nodded and tried a half-hearted smile. It wasn’t really, but it was comforting being fussed over.

“You just stay there and I’ll go and fetch Elrond for you. He’ll be in his study at this time of day.”

Frodo sighed. Of course Elrond would be in his study. He went to his study every morning to take care of any business. Why had Frodo not remembered that? He leaned back against the pillows and squirmed, trying to move away from his aches. But they only moved with him.

It was only minutes later that Elrond drifted quietly into the room, bringing with him an aura of calm and tranquillity. Bilbo followed in his wake and settled himself on a chair near the bedside, making it quite clear that he was not leaving until something had been sorted out.

Elrond relieved Frodo of his empty milk glass. “Bilbo tells me that you are feeling a little uncomfortable and restless today.”

Frodo nodded miserably. “The cramps are a little more frequent than they have been and my back aches. It’s not that burning, cramping pain that I’m used to. This is different, somehow. It just aches and aches.” He was surprised to find himself nearly in tears.

One of the elf’s cool hands came to rest on Frodo’s brow and, as it always did at Elrond’s touch, calm seemed to flow through him. As he removed some of the pillows so that his charge was a little more prone, Elrond’s soothing voice wrapped around Frodo. “Let me make an examination to see if I can establish what is happening.” With that, he eased up Frodo’s shirt and lowered the breeches and began to feel around his stomach. Frodo relaxed at last . . . trusting Elrond to supply some sort of easement. After a few moments the elf brought his hands to rest over the centre of Frodo’s stomach and smiled down at him.

“The babe’s head has engaged. Congratulations, Frodo. You are about to become a parent.”

Frodo’s eyes flew wide and Bilbo gasped in his chair across the bed. Elrond’s smile widened as he re-arranged Frodo’s clothing.

“But . . . but I thought . . . I mean you said that . . . that it would be very painful,” stammered Frodo.

Elrond’s smile grew rueful. “When I said that you were about to be a parent, I am afraid that I did not mean that it would happen within the next few minutes. You are still very much in the preliminary stages and, with a first child in particular, this could go on for a couple of days.”

Bilbo’s quiet voice broke in. “But you told us the baby is not due for another two weeks,” he accused mildly.

He was answered with a slight admonitory lift of the elf’s eyebrows. “You should have lived long enough by now, Bilbo, to know that nature does not always keep track of time as carefully as we. Calimore has decided that this is the right time and I do not intend to stand in his way, as I can see a healthy and fully developed babe, ready to greet the world.”

Frodo took in little of this, his focus now totally upon the tightly stretched, white seemed flesh beneath his shirt. It was time. Soon he would really see this child that had been a part of him for so many months. He wanted to touch those tiny fingers and stroke the dark curls . . . and yet another part of him did not want to feel the empty place within him that would be the inevitable result. 

Calimore was bound up in Frodo’s soul in a way they would never be again. They shared the same air, the same blood. There was no barrier of space between them and they knew each other’s moods, felt each other’s heartbeat. Carrying this child made him feel whole and Frodo was not sure that he would feel the same when the soul that had shared and renewed his was separated and ready to take its own road. 

“The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.” The words of Bilbo’s old walking song floated in his head. They had started out together from the same door, and Calimore had allowed his parent to carry him along Frodo’s path until today. Now Calimore would take the first steps on the road of his own life. Where would that road lead him? Wherever that road led, Frodo would make sure that his child was shown a gentler route than he had trod, and he hoped that at least they would be able to hold hands for some years yet to come.


	21. Chapter 21

“Come along, Frodo. Put that book down and have your tea. I don’t even think you’re actually reading it, are you?”

Frodo glowered at his uncle and continued to slow breathe through the cramping. Was it his imagination or was it getting stronger and more frequent? “I’m trying to read it, but I keep getting interrupted. Anyway, Elrond said I should do things to distract myself,” he retorted.

If Bilbo noted the waspish tone he gave no indication. “He did indeed, lad. But you’ve been reading for most of the day and you need to eat. When things start moving along a bit Elrond said you won’t feel like eating, so you should have something light now.”

Frodo slammed the book shut and hoisted himself out of the rocking chair, making for the privy. He was glad that Elrond had the foresight to provide him with a room that had it’s own privy, although with the number of times he was having to use it today he would not have refused a chamber pot. It seemed to him that his body was trying to expel everything . . . but . . . the baby.

By the time he returned, only a few minutes later, he was breathing through another cramp, this one more painful still. Bilbo waited it out and then led his nephew to the table, where a light meal had been set. Frodo helped himself to some broth and a piece of soft bread and for several minutes the two hobbits ate in uncomfortable silence. Outside, the breeze changed direction, blowing a smattering of rain against the windows and Frodo sighed. He had hoped to go for a walk after tea but it appeared it was not to be. If the weather had been dry he was sure Elrond would have allowed it, as long as Elrohir accompanied him.

Feeling another pain building, Frodo set down his spoon and decided that it was not his imagination . . . they had definitely been growing progressively stronger and closer together. This one was different, however, building slowly and definitely more intense. He gripped the edge of the table, putting a little more effort into the slow rhythm of his breathing. This was no longer just uncomfortable. This one hurt . . . a fact that apparently did not go unnoticed by his uncle for by the time it had passed he was at Frodo’s side.

“That was a little uncomfortable, wasn’t it lad?”

“Quite painfull, yes,” Frodo replied . . . a little in awe. It hurt . . . and he had suddenly lost all interest in the contents of the table. 

His uncle held him in place, when he would have risen from the chair. “Not now, lad. Remember what Elrond taught you. Listen to your body and relax any bits that are tense.”

Frodo closed his eyes as Bilbo rubbed soothing circles on his stomach. He could do this . . . just relax. Inhale gently and let all the tension leave with the outward breath. Discovering that theory was not quite the same as reality, it took several breaths to calm his body. Yet Frodo felt quite a sense of achievement when he succeeded. He had survived Mordor. He could survive this . . . couldn’t he? Something at the back of his mind laughed nervously but he tried to make his voice sound calm.

“Thank you, Bilbo. I’m very glad you’re here.”

Before turning for the door, Bilbo patted him gently on the shoulder. “And I’m going to go on being here until I see that little lad in your arms.” He took in Frodo’s slightly wan smile and added, hurriedly, “Just as soon as I fetch Elrond and Elrohir.” With those words he closed the door, leaving Frodo to stare out at the rain. Even if it had been dry outside it was unlikely he would get his walk now.

Bilbo was right, of course. He had not been reading the book, and not because of the pain . . . although that had become an increasing factor.

When he first discovered his situation it had not seemed real and he had gone almost whole days without considering it too closely. Then he had felt the babe move and the shadowy dream had suddenly taken on form. That had been a difficult confrontation but one to which he had gradually adjusted. The babe was a part of him and all Frodo had to do was carry it. 

Of course, that had not been as simple as he had imagined it would be. All the strange adjustments that his body made were difficult enough. But his emotions had swung from wild elation to deepest depression, with every shade in between and little warning. That was something for which he had not been prepared, but they had triggered the return of his memory and for that Frodo was deeply grateful. Would his memories remain after Calimore was born?

Until now he had only his imagination to show him the child for which he would be responsible. Now they were going to meet . . . face to face. All the elves seemed to think this was a perfectly normal hobbit babe, but elves were not infallible. Was he birthing some monster, spawned by the Ring to punish him? He had pushed such worries to the back of his mind for months but now he would see the child. There would be no room for denial. Most prospective parents had such worries he knew, but his were magnified.

And then there was his health. He had been helped through this term by expert healers and would be helped through the birthing too. But his body had been poisoned by Morgul blade, spider bite and long trial, before he even conceived. He knew, from childhood days in Brandy Hall, that some perfectly healthy ladies did not survive the trauma. There were vague memories of a distant aunt dying in childbirth . . . something about a haemorrhage. Frodo was not even female. Would his strange hybrid and poisoned body survive the stress?

By the time Bilbo returned, with the two elves, Frodo was in the throes of another contraction . . . a little stronger than the last. This one was not “quite” painful . . . it was “very” painful and fear was making it difficult for Frodo to give breathing his full attention. As it always did, however, Elrond’s touch brought with it calm. And as soon as the pain faded, Frodo was carried to the bed. The gravid hobbit sighed in relief as Elrohir arranged pillows behind his shoulders. His helpers had arrived and he trusted them to see him through this . . . if anyone could. His relief was short lived however. 

“I am sorry, Frodo. I know how much you dislike these examinations, but I must check how far your body has opened.” Elrond pushed Frodo’s legs slightly apart and slipped a finger into the newly developed opening in his lower regions. Frodo only took his eyes from the far wall when Elrond removed his finger.

“You are doing very well Frodo. The opening is almost half the size I expect you will need to deliver the babe.”

Frodo astonishment was very evident. “Only less than half?”

“Your delivery is progressing relatively quickly but will take, I estimate, several more hours. On the other hand . . . you have carried this child for many months. What are a few hours more?”

That was all very fine for Elrond to say, Frodo muttered inwardly. Elrond was not the one who was having his teeth extracted via his backside. He was still trying to think of a cutting retort when the next contraction started to build and he drew up his legs and pushed himself upright, rocking on his tailbones in an attempt to over-ride the now frightening pain.

He did not want to breathe, he just wanted to cry. It dawned on Frodo that he was not in control of this process . . . that he never had been . . . that his body was doing this all on its own and there was no way that he could halt it. The pain was going to get worse and there was no escape from it. He could not endure this . . . had endured so much already. This was too much to ask of him. Maybe this was what the Ring had intended all along and his punishment was to die in this process, knowing that the Ring had won.

Gradually, the wave receded and he became aware of Bilbo’s lavender and books smell and warm arms hugging him. He opened his eyes to find his chin resting on Bilbo’s shoulder, his perspiration darkening the fine green silk of his uncle’s waistcoat.

“I can’t do this, Bilbo. It’s killing me. Just as it planned. I was never intended to have this happiness,” he whimpered, huddled in Bilbo’s arms.

His uncle’s voice was soft and brought back memories of childhood days, when the gentle hobbit had sat up through the night to comfort a fevered tweenager. “There, there, Frodo lad. This pain will pass and you’ll think it all worth the while when little Calimore is in your arms.” 

Elrond watched as Bilbo rocked his nephew gently back and forth, and Frodo gradually relaxed, growing limp in his comforting embrace. The older hobbit’s voice went on, weaving peace into his nephew’s soul.

“I can remember Pris saying that your Mama cried just like this when she was having you . . . was convinced she was going to die. But you arrived and as soon as she looked into those big blue eyes, your Aunt Prisca said that all the pain and tears faded away. 

Your little Calimore is looking for your help to bring him into the world because he can’t do it on his own. And you deserve the happiness of seeing that face you’ve only dreamed of.”

“But . . . the Ring, Bilbo?”

“I can’t say that the Ring didn’t start this, lad, but the Ring’s gone. And all that was built with it is destroyed. But your babe lives on and so do you. I don’t believe that’s any doing of that accursed piece of metal. This is your reward and your healing . . . a wonderful gift. Take it in both hands lad. You’re stronger than you think and we’re all here to help you.”

Frodo let his cheek come to rest more securely on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m not as strong as I was. Am I strong enough to come through this?”

“You’re a Baggins. And we Baggins’ are made of sterner stuff than most. The two of us will work together through this and see that wee lad of yours come into this world.”

A low moan rolled from Frodo’s throat as he felt his stomach tightening again and Bilbo pushed him gently away, grasping Frodo’s upper arms and holding his nephew’s eyes with his own.

“Come on now, Frodo. Breathe with me. In slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. That’s it . . . in . . .”

Frodo breathed in, his eyes intent on his uncle’s face and his own breathing . . . his body mirroring Bilbo’s long in-drawn and softly expelled breath. Somewhere he was aware of Elrohir’s hand circling on his back and he tried to ride the pain this time, instead of fighting it. This would help him bring Calimore into the world. This pain had a purpose and promised a sweet reward. There was no way to avoid it so he must endure it, if for no other reason than to give Calimore life. The babe had given him so much already.


	22. Chapter 22

“You can lean on me, Frodo. I won’t break. Put your arms around my neck and we’ll just rock gently through the next one. Imagine you’re dancing with a pretty lass in the moonlight.”

Frodo allowed himself a small smile and followed his uncle’s instructions, knowing that Elrohir knelt ready at their side if either faltered. 

“It’s as well I have a good imagination, Bilbo. You make a very ugly lass.”

Bilbo’s chuckled. “Yes, well . . . perhaps we have that the wrong way round, anyway.”

Frodo started to laugh with him and then took a deep breath instead . . . announcing the onset of the next contraction . . . and the small team went back to work. 

Bilbo supported his nephew and Frodo concentrated on breathing, letting his uncle move him as the two rocked from foot to foot in response to some unheard music. Elrohir dabbed at Frodo’s face with a cool cloth and Elrond lightly massaged his lower back. The room was quiet apart from Frodo’s breathing and the crackle of the fire in the grate. 

Night had fallen hours ago and their efforts were dimly lit by only a few candles and firelight. Ever since his journey Frodo had felt uncomfortable in the dark, but there was a welcome comfort in this room tonight and it seemed that the whole valley breathed softly, wrapping him around in a warm blanket of love.

Elrond’s words were hardly more than a whisper, and yet he gave voice to his valley. “Relax . . . you are coping well, Frodo. Allow you body to do what is needful. Relax around it.” The elf’s rich tones seemed to slip beneath his pain, soothing and calming him, even as the hands gently eased his back. This was a long contraction and as the pain died away, Frodo sighed and tried to follow Elrond’s instruction. It was near impossible by now but he tried anyway.

They had used all sorts of positions to help him cope with the discomfort. The rocking chair had been his refuge for a few hours but then he had felt a need to move and Bilbo and Elrohir had helped him walk about the room. When Frodo grew fretful, Elrond always seemed to know another position for him to try, and that would satisfy him for a while, until the restlessness of the pain made him want to change again.

“I think I’d like to sit down for a few minutes, please?”

Taking Frodo’s weight from Bilbo, Elrond lowered the weary parent-to-be onto the floor between his outspread legs, leaning him back to rest against the elf’s chest. No sooner had he settled gratefully, than another wave of pain assaulted him, and Frodo finally gave in to the urge to vocalise it . . . letting out a long low moan that made the hairs on the back of Bilbo’s neck rise. Elrond wrapped strong arms about him and rocked gently from side to side until the sound faded and the bundle in his arms began to relax again.

There was a small popping and Frodo glanced down in alarm as a puddle of fluid collected on the floor around them. He was so hot that his nightshirt was stuck to him but he felt himself grow even hotter now as he blushed. Surely he had not? No he could not have. It did not come from the usual place. Bilbo looked equally alarmed but Elrohir wordlessly reached for towels to dry off Frodo, Elrond and then the floor. Both hobbits glanced at Elrond for explanation and the elven healer obliged with a slight smile.

“That should make things move along a little more swiftly. Your waters just broke. Do you not remember me mentioning that the baby floated in a little sac of fluid and that this must rupture before the birth? It is another sign that things are progressing well.” The elf rose and carried Frodo to the bed. “I shall need to perform another examination to check how much further your opening has dilated.”

Frodo did not care anymore and lay unresisting while Elrond washed his hands and Elrohir moved Frodo’s limbs into the required position. There was little of his dignity left by now. The examination was brief and gentle and Frodo tried to concentrate on something else . . . his eyes unfortunately drawn to the large, water filled basin on the bedside table . . . in which several curiously shaped metal instruments gleamed tauntingly. 

“Frodo?”

Tearing his eyes away, Frodo took refuge in Elrond’s face and was surprised to find a smile.

“You are nearly there, Frodo. Just a little wider and your babe can slip through the opening and into the birth canal.”

Frodo would have smiled in return, but he was assailed with a deep and agonising pain that tore a scream from him. The brief respite of the past few minutes had lulled him and he was unprepared for such a sudden depth of pain. Someone had filled his belly with rocks. They were trying to fall through the small hole between his thighs but two fine strings around his body tied them to his back. And they were pulling, relentlessly. Bilbo clambered onto the bed at once to hold his nephew and looked up at Elrond in horror.

“What is it . . . what’s wrong?”

Elrond merely shook his head. “Nothing is wrong. His pains are . . . quite intense . . . and will be so for some time now. They will be longer in duration and more frequent. It is usual for this stage of the birthing . . . but you must help him regain control of his breathing.”

Frodo struggled in his uncle’s arms, trying desperately to back away from the tight cramping, dragging pain in his belly. This was beyond him. He was definitely going to die.

From some great distance he was aware of Bilbo’s familiar voice and Frodo tried to focus on it through the agony that went on and on and on. He was being told to stop screaming. What did Bilbo know about it? Bilbo was not the one experiencing this agony. 

Screaming was all he could do now. His body was one huge scream. How much breath did his lungs hold? Would there be enough to hold the scream until the pain left? Was the pain ever going to leave?

“Breathe in, Frodo. Come on lad…breathe in with me. Stop screaming and breathe!” The final sentence was called in a tone well remembered by Frodo from his headstrong tweenage years.

He finally ran out of breath but the pain went on. Frodo had to inhale and he followed Bilbo . . . breathing in. Elrond’s voice slid quietly into his mind again. “Do not scream, Frodo. Moan . . . moan low and long.” It was a strange instruction, but Frodo followed it. Slowly . . . slowly . . . the pain subsided . . . leaving him gasping like a trout tossed onto the dry grass riverbank.

Elrond and Elrohir settled him back into his pillows and Bilbo offered a sip of honeyed water as Elrond rubbed Frodo’s aching belly. His calm voice continued.

“This is the most painful part, Frodo. Your body’s opening is widening that last little bit to allow the babe’s head to slip into the birth canal. The pains will be longer, and closer together. Do not try to push the baby, for the time is not yet right. Your body is working as it should and you will feel when the time is ripe. And there is no shame in calling out your pain. Many women find that it helps them to do so. But do not scream . . . that uses the muscles that should be pushing your baby and will slow the process down.” 

His last words were almost lost as Frodo felt the pressure build again and he sought desperately for Bilbo’s face and hands, his uncle knowing at once what he needed . . . 

“Slow, deep breaths, Frodo. Breathe in and out with me. In . . .”

Frodo’s world became centred upon pain and on breathing for long enough to get through it. He did not want to die but he was not sure that he could live through this. All coherent thought was driven from his mind as he gripped Bilbo’s fingers. 

There was no Frodo Baggins. 

He was only pain and air.

 

00000

Someone held a bowl beneath his chin and he brought back what little was still in his stomach. 

Frodo was on his hands and knees on the bed, Elrohir was supporting him with an arm beneath his chest, his other hand resting on Frodo’s aching back. The bowl disappeared and Bilbo bathed his face with a cool cloth as Elrohir guided his charge to sink forward, head cradled in his arms and his bottom in the air. Frodo was trembling, as though he had been running for miles. Something trickled down his thighs and he raised himself on unsteady arms and glanced back in time to see Elrond wiping blood from his legs. Noting Frodo watching Elrond smiled. 

“Some bleeding is not unusual. It is nothing to worry about.”

Frodo was too weak and weary to worry and only closed his eyes, lowering his chest back into the soft support of the bed. The respite did not last, however and he levered himself back up on his hands as the next wave rolled through him. Bilbo was there, talking, stroking, and breathing. 

 

00000

Elrond’s finger was prying once more but Frodo no longer cared. The last contraction had been the worst yet and Bilbo was gently wiping tears from his nephew’s face. Frodo had been placed on his side on the huge bed, his body propped by pillows in various places and he tried to bring his breathing back under control now that the agony had subsided sufficiently.

“I can touch your babe’s head, Frodo. When the contraction’s start again you will probably feel the urge to push.”

Frodo allowed himself a small laugh, the sound little more than a cracked wheeze in his sore throat. At last he was being allowed to do something other than endure. Elrohir slipped a little chip of ice between his lips and Frodo accepted it gratefully, trying to marshal what strength he had left.

All time for reverie had passed. He had no energy for thought or hope or memory. He was living only in this moment. Frodo concentrated on getting through this particular pain, focussing upon just this one breath.


	23. Chapter 23

“Listen to your body, Frodo. Do not bear down unless your muscles tell you to. You must not try to rush things,” Elrond warned as Frodo grunted and felt an irresistible urge to push downwards. “And do not hold your breath.”

So many instructions to remember. He was on his hands and knees again, finding it the most comfortable position when he felt the need to push . . . if any position could be called, “comfortable”. The intensity of the pains had eased and Frodo felt that he had regained some control over the situation. The shaking and nausea had faded too and he was sure that he could feel the baby inching down his body with each push he gave. How could ladies go through this more than once?

Elrond was behind him and Frodo could feel a warm compress easing the taut skin between his birth canal and his back passage. Pain returned and Frodo tried to hold back as another sensation became apparent. No…he could not empty his bowels at a time like this. But it was too late . . . He cried out in despair as he felt something expelled from his back passage.

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to. I am so sorry.”

The Elrond’s voice was calm and reassuring as he moved to wash his hands, and Elrohir wiped away the evidence with clean cloths.

“Frodo . . . you have not embarrassed us. This often happens as the baby descends and the head puts pressure on your bowels. You actually expelled very little and you are clean now. It is unlikely to happen again as Bilbo tells me you were emptying your bowels regularly during the early stages.” There was a slight note of chiding in the elf’s voice as he continued. “The loose evacuation of your bowels was a good sign that the babe was on the way . . . which I could have reassured you of . . . if you had advised me at the time.”

Frodo would have glared at his uncle if he could have mustered the strength. Had he no secrets? Apparently not. No secrets and no dignity left.

Elrohir returned with a receptacle and Frodo relieved himself thankfully, feeling more comfortable now that at least was taken care of, and not quite as worried about embarrassing himself. Although he was almost amazed that he could still be embarrassed about anything after the past few hours. Was it only hours? It felt like days and days. 

Elrond exchanged a cooling compress for another warm one and Frodo was grateful for the feeling of someone there, caring and ready to help when needed. He was sure the time must be close. He hoped the time was close because he truly was running out of strength.

An iron arm wrapped itself around his lower body, squeezing in and down relentlessly and as Frodo concentrated upon Bilbo’s face he was only vaguely aware of Elrond talking quietly to Elrohir.

“ . . . not much room . . . be careful . . . avoid tearing or cutting . . . control the push . . . crowning . . .”

With one final squeeze the arm relaxed and Frodo found that Elrond was addressing him now, as Elrohir temporarily took over the task of support. The healer lifted one of Frodo’s hands and guided it back, to touch the area between his legs.

“The head is showing, Frodo. A few more pushes like that and it will be through. Here . . .” 

Frodo’s fingers found a wide round opening and pushed up against it was a warm, wrinkled and slippery . . . something. He burst into tears of wondrous delight as he explored and met Bilbo’s questioning gaze.

“He has hair, Bilbo. Calimore has hair!”

There was no more time for celebration as the next pain surged but now Frodo seemed to find a new reserve of strength and readily slipped into rhythm with his body. Elrond’s fingers worked carefully around his opening . . . now stretching the flesh gently . . . now holding the head back to slow it’s pressure on the taut skin. It felt to Frodo sometimes, as though he were trying to push the head through a tight ring of fire and, even in his present extremis, the irony of such an analogy was not lost on him. He listened to Elrond’s prompting, trying to control his body’s need to end the pain by delivering this baby quickly. 

“I do not want your flesh to tear, Frodo. When I tell you to pant I want you to breathe in and out more quickly and resist the urge to push. It will be difficult for you, but necessary.”

And, as usual, Elrond was right. It was difficult to fight his body and his mind. He so wanted to end the agony and embrace his baby, but Frodo managed to hold back when instructed. As another pain subsided, and he finished pushing, Elrond spoke the words he had wanted to hear for so long. 

“Come and touch your babe’s face, Frodo.” His hand was guided back once more and his fingers explored in amazed awe the eyelashes, nose and mouth of his baby’s head. Even as he touched it Frodo felt another movement and the face turned to one side. He was drawn into pushing, once more and a little while later Frodo gasped in relief as he felt something slide from his body.

“I have him, Frodo,” Elrond announced, quietly as Bilbo and Elrohir turned Frodo onto his back at last. He was propped against his Uncle’s chest as Elrond pushed up Frodo’s shirt to expose his still large belly and laid upon it a grey, slippery and unmoving figure, still attached by a pulsing chord to his parent. In Elrond’s hand, the child had seemed little more than the size of a large kitten.

“He . . . he’s . . . not breathing,” Frodo whimpered in despair. It had all been for nothing. The Ring had won. Elrond took Frodo’s hands at once and laid them upon Calimore’s grey skin.

“Massage him gently. He is well. He just needs a little encouragement to take his first breath. He has to feel as loved and wanted out here as he was within you.”

To his surprise, Frodo found his babe’s skin warm and as he stroked his fingers gently across the slippery back the tiny mouth opened and issued a small mew. Before his disbelieving eyes the grey skin began to pink and one tiny hand formed a fist. So taken was he with this miracle that he was not even aware of Elrond tying off and cutting the natal chord until Calimore was lifted away from his belly wiped, and wrapped in a warm towel. Elrohir opened Frodo’s shirt to expose his chest and Elrond laid Calimore in his parent’s eager and waiting arms. 

“He’s beautiful, Bilbo,” Frodo murmured, his fingers twirling one damp little curl. He felt Bilbo chuckle behind him.

“Looks like a skinned coney,” he murmured, but when Frodo tilted his head back in indignation he found his uncle smiling down at him. The smile widened. “Of course he’s beautiful. He’s a Baggins,” Bilbo amended, stroking the damp downy hair on one pink foot.

“You should feed him, Frodo. It will help with the next stage of the birthing. The chord and that which it is attached to must be expelled.” As he spoke, Elrond drew Frodo’s shirt a little wider, to expose one small breast.

If his body had the energy left Frodo was sure that his face would have been blushing. As it was the parent simply held his breast as he had been instructed before and rubbed the nipple a little clumsily against the tiny pink bow of Calimore’s upper lip. In true hobbit style, the babe opened his mouth wide and Elrond helped Frodo tilt him to the nipple.

The parent’s eyes opened wide as Calimore latched on and began to tug firmly, his button nose pushed up hard against Frodo’s pale skin. For a second there was a pause as two bright blue eyes flickered open and gazed up, focussing dazedly for the first time upon those of exactly the same hue staring down at him . . . and Frodo knew at once that the soul tie had not been cut with Calimore’s birthing. Though their relationship may grow and shift through the years, this love would never change.

For several minutes silence reclaimed the room and all faces kept returning to the pair on the bed. Frodo had eyes only for the tiny, figure suckling at his chest. Calimore’s thick lashes rested upon his cheeks once more and the small squirming movements that he had made at first were slowing, as was his suckling. Apart from one tiny mew of alarm at his first indrawn breath the only other sounds that had come from the babe were those of suckling, interspersed now with tiny grunts of contentment.

Calimore had brought the dawn and thin winter sunlight was trying to sneak around the edges of the curtains at the windows but Elrond made no move to open them. Frodo and his babe would need to sleep soon. It had not been a long labour, by the standards of most first birthings, but the Ringbearer was not as hale as he once was and so the relatively short labour was an unexpected mercy. Now much advanced in years, Bilbo too, was feeling the strain of the past twenty-four hours, although he still sat behind his nephew, smiling. Elrond beckoned to his son when he saw a flicker of surprised pain cross Frodo’s face.

“Frodo . . . can I take Calimore for you. You have a little more work to do, I am afraid.” Elrond reached out, bringing two fingers to rest lightly upon the crown of the babe’s head. With one final sated grunt, Calimore’s tiny mouth slid away from the nipple. Frodo would have protested at his child’s departure, but his pain intensified and Bilbo moved to help him onto hands and knees again as Elrond laid the now sleeping babe in his cradle by the fire.

“This will need the same movements that you used to push Calimore, Frodo,” Elrond murmured as Elrohir brought a basin. “Your body is simply disposing of the natal chord and the organ that attached you to your babe. They are no longer required.”

It took only a few minutes this time, before a small solid mass, the remains of the natal chord still attached, lay in the basin between Frodo’s knees. The elves were about to help him lie down again when his face contorted in pain once more. 

Elrond reached for another basin and Elrohir moved to help support Frodo, as Bilbo was by now too exhausted himself to be of much further use in that roll. He bathed his nephew’s face and rubbed his shoulders instead, unaware that there was anything amiss until he saw the worry hovering on the younger elf’s brow.

Frodo knew little beyond the persistent squeezing cramps that rippled through his abdomen but Bilbo watched in alarm as Elrond placed a hand over Frodo’s, still swollen belly, and tilted his head . . . as though listening. When the keen grey eyes looked up they showed some concern. He tried to speak to Frodo . . . bound up in his exhausted struggle . . . but the hobbit was only vaguely aware of his words and could certainly spare no breath to respond.

“What is happening, Elrond?” Bilbo hissed as he wiped Frodo’s lips. The unfortunate lad had just spilled the meagre contents of his stomach. Predominantly water, fortunately.

Moving to Frodo’s rear once more, Elrond concentrated upon wiping away more blood as the small frame trembled and strained. Frodo heard an edge of uncertainty in his voice that had not been evident before.

“It is usual . . . to be a shedding . . . organ that . . . basin earlier. Beyond that . . . bleeding . . . few days . . . end of the matter.”

Frodo screamed, clinging desperately to Elrohir’s support as his stomach muscles contracted violently, and from the crib Calimore’s weak cries echoed his. Elrond slid another basin beneath Frodo, along with several towels, and continued to wipe away the blood as a strangely shaped mass began to protrude from the birth canal.

“It . . . not be possible . . . push . . . but it is happening . . . expelling the organ . . . sheltered Calimore . . . months. Unfortunately . . . already weakened. Ready . . . instruments . . . help him.”

Calimore’s cries were the last thing Frodo heard before another steel band contracted about his belly and that was the final impetus that plunged him down into blissful nothingness.


	24. Chapter 24

Frodo whimpered as someone made him sit up while hands peeled his sodden nightshirt off him. He was suddenly chilled and trembling and warm and gentle arms enfolded him in a soft blanket and then cradled him.

All his joints had been unhinged and his insides felt as though they had been scoured with a laundry brush. A headache twinged mercilessly from the back of his neck, up into his scalp and there was a deep soreness in his lower regions. His teeth chattered with cold and when Frodo felt himself lifted into someone’s arms and carried he tried to snuggle closer to the warmth of the chest he rested against.

Water . . . warm and fragrant water . . . almost up to his shoulders. Finally daring to open his eyes, Frodo sighed, inhaling the soothing aroma of rosemary. His eyelids were too heavy to open fully but he was content, for the moment, with the blurry and firelit figures that worked almost silently around him.

He trusted implicitly the competent hands that guided him back to rest upon a pad behind his shoulders . . . the murmured instruction to relax.

After a few moments Frodo found the strength to open his eyes further and recognised Elrond as the one now soaping his left arm and hand. He glanced down, expecting to find clear steaming water and for a moment he was perplexed to find it tinted faintly pink. It took him a moment longer to realise what had probably caused this coloration and he tried to tell his carers. His throat was sore and dry, however and he found no sound would issue from his cracked lips so he tried to move, however feebly, to gain Elrond’s attention.

His attempts succeeded and the elf stopped his work and looked closely at his charge’s face. Bilbo handed him a cup and the healer touched it to Frodo’s lips, trickling a little peppermint tea into his parched mouth. Frodo swallowed gratefully and managed to produce a croak.

“Blood.”

Elrond gave him another sip of tea. “Do not worry yourself, Frodo. The worst is over and most of what you see is what has soaked off your skin. The blood flow now is minimal.”

Frowning, the hobbit tried to process this information in his sluggish mind, only distantly aware that Bilbo had taken over the task of soaping and cleansing him, while Elrond supported and kept trickling tiny amounts of tea into Frodo’s mouth.

“Calimore?”

Elrond’s voice was as calm as ever and Frodo found himself relaxing once more as warmth, tea, the rosemary in the water easing his aches, and his uncle’s familiar touch all worked together on his exhausted mind and body.

“Calimore is clean and well and sleeping. As you will be soon.”

Frodo swallowed another sip of the honeyed tea. “What . . . what happened?”

“It would seem that your body has decided that it no longer needs those female portions of your anatomy that have succoured your babe these past months. Once you are clean and settled in your bed I shall use a couple of sutures to close the passage and it should heal fully within a few weeks.”

Having increasing difficulty understanding the import of the elf’s words, Frodo closed his eyes once more, willing to leave such weighty matters until later.

The sticky perspiration that had coated his body floated away . . . his aches floated away . . . sound and light and consciousness all floated away. 

00000

There was a yielding support under his aching back and comfortable softness beneath his head. Frodo lay still, frightened that any movement would bring a return of pain, and luxuriating instead in the feel of clean soft linen and light warm blankets draped about him. Swallowing in a dry and swollen throat, he blinked open heavy eyelids, focussing at last upon a flat ceiling with dark, richly carved beams. Rivendell. The river . . . he had fallen in the river . . . when it rose up against the black riders.

He brought up his right hand . . . scrabbling to find it. They had hung it on a chain about his neck. He was sure they had. Fingertips encountered a chain, followed it down . . . but there was no Ring . . . only a facetted jewel. It had been stolen from him. Frodo’s heart began to pound and he started when a log in the grate spat and shifted, pulling his eyes to the hearth.

The fire flickered warmly behind an intricate mesh grill and to one side sat a blue canopied cradle. Frodo’s heart slowed. The riders were no more. The One Ring had been destroyed . . . and he had Calimore.

Sensing movement, Frodo turned his head to find Elrond filling a cup. The elf smiled down at him, serene and collected as he had looked through most of the birthing . . . except when Frodo’s waters had broken. The hobbit took a small but perverse delight in the memory of Elrond with very wet breeches.

“Welcome back, Frodo. Would you like something to drink? You must be thirsty.”

“Please.” Frodo’s voice was only a hoarse whisper and the liquid, when it arrived, was balm to his throat. He swallowed all the gently warmed ginger tea gratefully, pausing only long enough to breathe, “Calimore?”

“He is still sleeping.”

Once the cup was emptied, Elrond lowered his head back into the soft pillows and moved towards the hearth. Frodo noticed that the elf had taken some time while Frodo slept to change his own clothing. The hobbit supposed that it did not look well for the Lord of Imladris to be wondering about looking as though he had been taken short.

“Can I hold him?” asked Frodo as he saw the elf bend over the tiny cradle and fold back the covers. Elrond rose with a bundle of soft white shawl in the crook of one arm, and he was smiling when he returned to the bed.

“I was anticipating that request.” Elrond laid the parcel at Frodo’s side and the hobbit let go the jewel he had been clutching so tightly to lift a corner of the delicate lace edged covering. Elrond helped him shift onto his side so that he could take a better look at this miracle.

Like his parent, Calimore had been bathed and dressed in a clean nightshirt. Tiny forget-me-nots danced around the neck of the garment and Frodo knew that if those eyes, with their fringes of dark lashes, were to open they would be exactly the same shade of brilliant blue as the flowers. 

A fine network of pale blue veins was just visible beneath the pale pink, almost transparent skin of Calimore’s slightly swollen face . . . a flush of deeper pink brushed each cheek . . . his lips the shape and colour of a fresh wild rosebud. Hair that Frodo had last seen in damp ringlets now lay in a glossy fluff of burnt chestnut curls, fine enough to show the still slightly misshapen skull and tips of his clearly hobbit ears.

Frodo opened the soft shawl further and encountered two delicate hands. He slipped one of the fingers of his right hand into Calimore’s palm and the miniature fingers wrapped around it tightly . . . candlelight reflecting off the flat surfaces of five tiny nailbeds, each perfect half-moon at their base showing pearl against the pink. The babe shifted slightly, the rosebud opening wide in a yawn to expose soft pink gums and a petal of a tongue. Frodo’s eyes moved further down the body to find two sturdy feet, their dark downy hair a contrast to the rose tinted skin.

This miraculous and beautiful creature had been nestled within him all these months, had shared his blood, his air . . . his dreams. No . . . Calimore was his dream. He was Frodo’s dream of family, made flesh. A tear sparkled in a myriad rainbows as it splashed upon Calimore’s fingers and Frodo realised that it had fallen from his own eye. He smiled as he brushed it away with his thumb, hearing his Uncle Saradoc’s deep voice chiding him with a barely disguised hint of amusement. 

“Frodo Baggins . . . you big ninny! Your soft nature will get you into all sorts of bother one day.”

Another memory Frodo had long considered lost to him. Talking of memory . . . 

“Elrond . . . did I faint? I don’t remember much after Calimore’s birth.”

Settling in a chair at the bedside, Elrond tucked the shawl back around the sleeping babe, his own face soft with memory, although even the twins had never been as tiny as this perfect little doll.

“Do you remember once asking me whether the organs that you grew to support Calimore would remain after the birth?”

Frodo nodded, becoming aware of a small wad of fabric between his thighs. The elven healer continued, pouring another cup of tea as he spoke lightly.

“After Calimore’s birth your body expelled the internal organs it had grown. It was quite painful and you were already weak. There was a considerable loss of blood but it has been stemmed. You will need a great deal of rest.” He supported Frodo again as he held the cup for him to sip.

Frodo glanced up in alarm. “Could I have died?”

He was not surprised when Elrond considered a moment before replying. It was something Frodo had seen him do often when he was trying to couch unpleasant information in soothing terms.

“There was some danger for a while. Your body has been through much hardship in the past year but I believe you will recover well enough.”

Frodo digested this news, knowing that there was a wealth of information buried in those few short statements. He had been close to death then? The injuries acquired during the Quest had still not healed and this would be an added strain to his failing constitution. Although he could expect some improvement in his health from his present condition . . . he would never be fully as healthy as he once was. And . . . recover well enough for what?

“Elrond, will I live long enough to see him grow up?” Frodo studied the elf’s face intently, knowing only too well how closely the elven lord guarded his expression. He was surprised, therefore, when he caught a flicker of deep sadness in those ageless features.

“I do not know. On that day of the Council I saw some destiny, but your future has always been hidden from me.”

Feeling the fingers about his tighten, Frodo looked down to see Calimore yawn and stir, dark eyelashes fluttering. He waited a moment but the babe seemed to settle once more. Perhaps he was dreaming. Frodo wondered what his son’s dreams were about. At least they would not be as dark as his parent’s.

Calimore would have a good life; one filled with peace, happiness and love for as long as Frodo could give it. But how long could Frodo provide for him? He had nearly died on the first anniversary of his wounding and now he had only survived again because of Elrond’s intervention. When he looked up again he found Elrond, too, was watching Calimore, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Elrond. You have done so much for me already that I am almost afraid to ask . . . to ask another favour of you.”

Those ancient silver-grey eyes fell upon him. “You may ask any favour of me that you wish, Frodo, and if it is within my power to grant it I will do so.”

“You fostered Aragorn when his father died, and he grew to be a great and wise man. If I . . . if I die, will you foster Calimore?” 

Elrond gave no word of protest to the suggestion that Frodo may not live to see his son grow to adulthood, and that in itself told him more than he really wanted to know.

“Would you not rather he was raised in the Shire? I am sure one of your friends or family would be most willing to take him in as their own.”

Frodo shook his head. “I have already considered that. Family is very important to a hobbit.” He smiled a little ruefully at his child. “In case you hadn’t noticed. And Calimore’s lineage would be a matter of close scrutiny. It is the main reason I decided not to return to the Shire after his birth. I know, first hand, how much gossip can hurt a child and I would rather he grew up in a place where he is accepted and loved for who he is, rather than for what family he comes from.” Frodo glanced up at the elf and smiled. “And I do think he would be well loved.”

“If it is your wish, I would be honoured to care for him, in the event of him losing you.”

“Thank you.”

Calimore stirred once more and Frodo smiled down into bright blue eyes that were trying intently to focus upon his. “Hello lad. Your family is growing already. It seems you now have an honorary uncle. And he’s an elven lord, no less.” Calimore yawned widely and both hobbit and elf chuckled.

“I can see that he is most impressed,” Elrond noted in a wry tone.

The babe continued to demonstrate his awe by waving his arms about in an uncoordinated fashion, eventually managing to stick the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. Frodo looked up, noticing for the first time that, although the room was dark and candles lit, a sliver of pale light showed beneath the hems of the curtains.

“What time is it? How long have I slept?”

“It is four o’clock in the afternoon and you have slept since dawn.”

Frodo disentangled his finger from his son’s hand and began to fumble at the buttons of his nightshirt. “He will be hungry.”

“Do not fret, Frodo. He was given some honeyed water whilst you slept.”

The elf glanced down, studying the babe. He had to confess that Calimore was becoming fretful. The babe’s fingers left his mouth and the tiny bottom lip quivered for a second before the whole face seemed to crumple and his mouth opened to issue a small bleat of protest. Elrond laid him closer to Frodo’s chest and the rosebud mouth began to root at once, finally finding the nipple his parent hastily offered and latching on firmly.

Not taking his eyes from his son’s, now contented, face for one moment, Frodo smiled. “Well, Calimore, if there were ever any doubt about whether you were all hobbit, I think you just declared your heritage loudly.”


	25. Chapter 25

Gone . . . It was gone . . . they had made him destroy It . . . his precious. Frodo moaned and rolled onto his side, trying to move away from the pain and despair. He was alone. It had whispered in his mind for all those months and now there was only silence. Even though Its words had been poison he had grown used to Its presence and with It’s destruction came no peace. It had insinuated Its way into his soul and then had been ripped away . . . taking half of his soul and much of his mind with It. Not only had he lost It but he had lost much of himself too. Frodo’s life would never be the same again. He would never be whole again. He mourned his loss.

“Sam?”

Where was Sam? Sam always helped him when he was hurting. Through all those months of the journey Sam had been his comforter and protector . . . had made sure that he ate . . . had given him more than his share of the water . . . had even tried to wrap him in his own body when they no longer had any blankets. But now Frodo was alone. He had never felt so alone in all his life . . . even after Bilbo left. There had always been someone there to comfort him.

The agony in his neck redoubled and Frodo cried out. A part of him knew that he was already lying on the floor and yet he could feel himself falling . . . spinning. Spiralling down . . . down . . . down. 

She had done this to him. He could feel her sharp nip and taste the sour poison as it sped through his exhausted body. Where was Sam? Frodo did not want to die alone . . . not in this cold bleak place. With no arms to embrace him, no gentle words of comfort or warm touch. It was becoming difficult to draw breath through the pain . . . so difficult to move.

Warm fingers swept lightly across his forehead, trailing calm in their wake. He was lifted and laid down upon something that willingly accepted to his agonised body; enfolded in warm blankets. A soft voice murmured words that he could not understand. Frodo was no longer alone with his pain in the icy darkness of the mountains.

“Sam?”

“No, Frodo. Sam is not here.”

He was not alone then? With strangers? Orcs? No. The voice was too lilting to be orc. Did they want It? He no longer had It. He had nothing. There was nothing left to live for, no reason to continue the struggle to inhale life-giving air. He just wanted it to end . . . the pain . . . the emptiness . . . the fight to live. Was he living or had he died?

A small, warm, wriggling something was laid at his side, moulding itself to the contours of Frodo’s body. Gradually there came awareness that the whimpers he could hear were not his own. Frodo felt fingers working at the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt and the warmth nuzzled closer. Suddenly there was a gentle and rhythmic tugging at his chest and the whimpers ceased.

Calimore.

Frodo was not alone. His life was no longer empty. There was a future to look forward to. He took a deep breath and brought up a leaden arm to cradle the bundle at his side, his fingers brushing the silky hair upon small feet. A hand came up to rest against his chest, tiny fingers splayed wide and warm against his skin.

The pain receded, taking despair and loneliness with it, and Frodo managed to open his eyes at last.

He was lying upon his bed, wrapped in a blanket, with Calimore nursing contentedly. How had he got here? His last memory was of going to the nursery to collect his child for the mid-morning feed. Then there had been a sharp pain at the back of his neck and the room had begun to spin wildly. Blinking about him, Frodo found Bilbo sitting at his bedside. The old hobbit’s face was filled with concern but when he saw his nephew’s eyes focus upon him at last the lines smoothed a little. 

“Bilbo? How long have you been here?” Frodo was surprised at how weak his voice sounded and tried to clear his throat.

“Only a little while, lad. Master Elrond sent for me when they found you. I’m sorry. We had not realised the date.”

“Date?” Frodo frowned as he tried to recall the date. It was spring . . . March . . . March the twelfth. Realisation brought with it a renewal of pain and he groaned as sharp twinges shot from his neck down into his back and up into his head. Shelob. Was he never to be free of the consequences of that horrifying journey?

The gentle voice from earlier returned and this time he could understand the words. “Come back to us, Frodo. You need not dwell in the shadows of the past. You have the present and you have a new future. You have Calimore.” 

Letting his eyes drift up and past Bilbo, Frodo found the unruffled features of Elrond. He swallowed in a dry throat. “Will this keep happening?”

Bilbo reached forward to brush his nephew’s hair off his brow and dab it with a cool cloth. Elrond settled upon the edge of the bed, watching as Calimore continued to suckle and noting Frodo’s cheeks beginning to regain some of their colour. 

“In truth, I am not sure but I suspect it will be so for as long as you are tied to Middle Earth. Calimore is helping you for the moment but I suspect that with each passing year your strength to resist these illnesses will be worn away.”

Bilbo paused in his soothing and grasped his nephew’s hand in his. “I am so sorry, lad. I wish with every waking breath that I had not left that accursed ring to you. This burden should not have been yours.” He brushed away a tear.

“It’s not your fault, Bilbo dear. You could not know. And you would not have had the strength to carry It there. I did not have the strength myself.” Frodo looked down at Calimore once more as the suckling slowed, to find wide blue eyes staring up at him.

“Have you had enough, sweetheart?” Elrond helped him sit up, piling pillows behind him, and Frodo settled his child against his shoulder, rubbing the small back gently. There was a small hiccup and then Calimore settled quietly, his hand reaching out to the jewel that sparkled at Frodo’s throat . . . tiny fingers finally grasping it tightly. Frodo looked down fondly but disentangled his child’s fingers when he saw the jewel being drawn towards the rosebud mouth.

“Are you still hungry?” Frodo settled Calimore at his other breast and the tiny mouth opened wide to accept the offered nipple. “Just getting your second wind?” His aches and pains were receding now and Frodo leaned back gratefully into the pillows while Bilbo tucked the blanket more closely about him.

Looking down at the contented face of his child Frodo saw tiny rainbows reflecting onto Calimore’s shawl from the sunlight glinting upon Arwen’s jewel. He glanced across at Elrond.

“What would happen if I left Middle-earth? Would the illnesses stop?”

“I am not sure. There is much virtue in the Undying Lands. I believe that you will, at the very least, be eased.”

“And what of Calimore if we travel there?” Frodo asked, his gaze returning to the small face nestled at his chest. “When I die . . . which will happen even in the Undying Lands for I am not immortal. When I die he will be alone.”

Elrond’s words fell into the waiting silence. “If you die here he will also be alone. You have said yourself that he could never return to the Shire. His home will be among elves, whether here or in the West. But I fear that he will be alone much sooner if you elect to remain here.”

“I would be making a huge decision about his life. If I take him West he will be losing the very opportunity that I sought . . . family,” Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo’s voice was sad but firm. “It’s an opportunity he still would not have, even if you stay. The Shire would not be open to him, nor Bree. We hobbits are a close lot, and we don’t take to strangers. You know that, lad. And I have to agree with Elrond. It seems to me that he will have family for much longer in the West than he would have if you stayed here.”

Calimore let go, sated, and Frodo lifted him onto his shoulder again, stroking his back. The small head nestled into the crook of Frodo’s neck and shoulder, minute fingers entwining in the silver chain holding Arwen’s gift and Frodo noticed a tiny smile tugging at Elrond lips.

“What is it?” he asked.

The elf kept his eyes upon the tiny babe. “That jewel once belonged to my wife and when Arwen was little older than Calimore she used to play with the chain, just like that.”

“You miss her . . . Arwen. Will you be travelling west soon or will you stay to watch over them?”

Elrond’s eyes met his. “I had made no definite decision and when I learned of Calimore I decided to wait for at least as long as you needed me.”

“If I travel west, will you go with me? Or will you wait so that you can be with Arwen,” Frodo asked timidly, aware that the conversation must be paining the father and suddenly realising just how deeply that pain ran, now that he was a father himself.

“I had looked upon her choice as a great loss. But tending you these past months has reminded me that some things are worth sacrifices. She has gained much in Aragorn’s love. Arwen does not need me to watch over her any more, for she has another to do that now. I have done all that I can to keep her safe and happy and I am grateful for every moment of her life that I have been privileged to share.”

Frodo could sense Calimore drifting back to sleep and brought him down gently to settle in his arms. The pale pink mouth opened in a wide yawn even as bright blue eyes closed.

“I suppose that is what being a parent is about. Protecting and guiding until your child is ready to take his own path,” Frodo murmured, watching long dark lashes come to rest on fine ivory skin.

“It is indeed, lad,” Bilbo replied and Frodo glanced across at him, sensing the empathy in his voice. Bilbo had never had children but he had taken his nephew in and cared for him as though he was his own. Frodo remembered gratefully all those times when Bilbo had soothed his hurts . . . and the times when he had stood aside and allowed his nephew to test the waters of adulthood, so that by the time he came of age Frodo was quite capable of making his own way in life.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you properly, Bilbo. You were a father to me.”

“There’s no need for thanks, Frodo lad. You’ll find out soon enough that the thanks come every day in the little things that Calimore does. I am sure Elrond will agree with me on that. You thanked me when you wrote your first Quenyan letter or sat back, contented after a good meal, or simply shared with me the doings of your day. I needed no more thanks than that.”

Elrond nodded agreement. “A child needs a parent. Someone who will accept and love him despite anything else that is going on in the world. Someone who knows when to hug him tight and when to simply walk behind in case he stumbles. If you need to travel to the West soon I am ready to accompany you, Frodo. I have no worries about Arwen and my other children. The decision to stay or go is yours.”

“And I’ll go with you too, lad. I’m not going to miss one moment of this child’s growing up,” Bilbo added.

Frodo’s gaze returned to his child. Until now this journey had been about Frodo’s need for family. Now the journey was also about Calimore’s need. Elrond was willing to raise him if he had to, but Frodo knew all too intimately what it was like to lose parents. 

“I would like to travel to the West with my child as soon as it can be arranged. He needs me as much as I need him. We are each other’s family and I want to be there for him for as long as I can.”


	26. Chapter 26

Frodo laid Calimore in his lap as he fastened his shirt, sighing as he listened to the babe’s restless wails. He began to rock too and fro in the chair, gently rubbing the tiny back, glancing up only briefly as Elrond settled on a larger chair at the other side of the nursery hearth, a small bowl of what looked like applesauce and a spoon in his hand.

Summer seemed to come early this year and Frodo wondered whether it was special or whether it was always the case in Rivendell. But for whatever reason, he welcomed it and the windows were open to let in the sound of waterfall and birdsong. Unfortunately, Frodo had heard little of both this morning, over Calimore’s fretful cries.

“He is still unsettled,” Elrond observed, rather needlessly to Frodo’s mind.

“Obviously.” He replied tersely, turning his attention back to his child and continuing to rock and stroke gently. “What’s troubling you, little Cali? You’ve been bathed and changed, fed and winded. Why are you crying, lad?”

“Has he fed as well as is usual for him?”

Frodo nodded, his gaze still on Calimore’s shaking body. “He has fed as often as usual, in fact it’s the only time he doesn’t cry. There’s no sign of fever.” He looked up at the elf in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do for him. He just will not be comforted.”

“Would you let me try? Perhaps it is time to tempt him with something a little more solid than milk.” He held up the bowl.

“Is he old enough for that?” Frodo asked, dubiously. 

“Sometimes such crying is a sign that it is time to try. He is five months old now. I think Calimore should be able to cope with it.”

“Then please try. I feel so helpless.” He rose and handed Calimore over to the elven lord. “Do all parents go through this? I thought we were supposed to create this wonderful bonding where I would know exactly what my child needed. Is it just me that can’t get it right?”

The elf did not laugh at him. “He is just fretful. I can detect no illness.” Settling the squalling babe in the crook of his arm, Elrond dipped a small spoon in the apple, taking up the tiniest amount, and slipping it into Calimore’s wide open mouth. For a moment the babe continued to cry and then his eyes opened in surprise as his tongue encountered the sweet taste of the apple. The wails stopped and Elrond drew the spoon out, leaving a tiny bit of sauce on the pale pink tongue.

Calimore’s mouth closed as he tried to work out how to get the morsel from tongue to throat. Until now he had been used only to suckling and that method did not seem to work in this case. Fortunately, the sauce had been milled almost to a liquid and it slid down without him having to make too much effort. Large blue eyes blinked and began to search around for more . . . all thought of crying now forgotten. He apparently learned fast for when Elrond touched the spoon to his lips again the rosebud mouth opened wide to admit it.

As Frodo watched, something tugged at his heart. Until now Calimore had been dependent solely upon him. Now his babe was growing up and could turn to others for succour and he felt a slight twinge of jealousy and loss at the thought. On the other hand, Calimore was gaining his first independence and their paths were beginning to diverge, just a little.

Calimore took only three or four mouthfuls and then turned his head away as the next was offered. Elrond smiled as he settled the tiny babe, tummy down, along the length of his forearm, the small head nestled in the crook of the elf’s elbow. With two fingers of his other hand he began to pat gently and rhythmically upon Calimore’s back. The tiny babe snuggled against the velvet sleeve, hiccuping twice before eyes swollen with crying closed. With one final yawn, Calimore drifted off into sleep.

A part of Frodo relaxed in relief that his child was no longer upset or hungry. Calimore was a hobbit, after all and to be hungry was a torment no hobbit would willingly inflict upon another. How could he not have recognised the symptoms, he chided himself. He supposed that if he had been in the Shire there would have been several older folk willing to advise a young parent on such things. Here he was limited to Elrond and, even now, he found asking the elf anything just a little daunting.

“Now, why couldn’t I do that?”

The elf smiled and handed Calimore back to Frodo. The small bundle moulded itself at once to his parent’s familiar body . . . his now serene face turning to nuzzle into the smooth silk of Frodo’s waistcoat. Not wishing to end this moment, Frodo returned to the rocking chair rather than placing Calimore in his cradle, and for several minutes both elf and hobbit rested in the sound of water and birdsong. It was Elrond who broke the silence.

“I have a communication for you.” He handed over a small envelope and Frodo recognised the handwriting at once as being Merry’s. He ripped it open eagerly, his sudden action making Calimore stir, and he paused for a moment while his child settled back down into sleep. He glanced through it quickly, his face lighting up.

“It’s from Merry. He says Sam and Rose had a lovely wedding day. That Rose looked beautiful and that Sam stammered his vows and blushed . . . Pip claimed two dances with the bride at the wedding feast and would have claimed a third if Sam had not intervened and pointed out that he deserved to dance at least one reel with his wife.” Frodo giggled. “Merry says that Pip still tried to insist on another dance, saying that Sam would have all the opportunity he needed now that he and Rose were wed. That’s when Merry spun our cousin around and thrust him into the arms of some lass called Diamond. I don’t think I know her.” 

For a moment longer Frodo read on in silence, although he was still smiling. Then he suddenly realised that Elrond was still watching. He folded the missive neatly and returned it to its envelope, placing it carefully in his pocket to read again later.

“It seems that Pippin is being pursued by the lasses left right and centre. Cuts quite a dash.” He shook his head and looked down at the contented little bundle nestling in his lap. “It doesn’t seem five minutes since he was this size and Merry and I were taking turns to try and get him to sleep. Pippin never seemed to like sleeping. I’m sure he thought something frightfully exciting was going to happen as soon as he closed his eyes and that he would be the only one to miss it.” Frodo sighed. “Poor Pip got a bit more excitement than he bargained for when he got mixed up with me.”

“You all did, lad.” Bilbo crossed from the door and came to stand by his nephew’s chair, smiling down at Calimore. “But because of the sacrifices that you made your children will grow up safe, and happy and with no more excitement in their lives than being caught stealing a kiss from a pretty lass in the moonlight.”

Frodo idly twirled on of the dark silky curls of his son’s head. “Will you even know that, Calimore?”

Bilbo glanced across at their host and winked. “Well . . . it doesn’t have to be a hobbit lass.”

Elrond tried to hide his smile behind a carefully placed hand and Frodo ducked his chin, ostensibly to check his child’s nappy.

 

0000

 

Frodo looked up from his book, inhaling the scent of bluebells from the nearby woods. The chestnut tree above him was in full leaf, dappling the sunshine of this bright early summer day, and he laid his head back on a cushion, staring up at the blue sky peeping through the gently stirring greenery. A smile touched his lips as Calimore began to gurgle and coo on the rug at his side and he turned to find his gaze almost level with his son’s triumphant blue eyes. The babe had succeeded in raising himself up onto wobbly arms and knees. 

“Well, hello. So you’ve found out that your arms are good for more than pushing toys into your mouth. Aren’t you the clever one?” Frodo laughed and was rewarded with a gummy and drooling grin in reply.

Fishing about beside him for a hanky, Frodo reached across and dabbed at Calimore’s chin and the babe tried to pull away, his face screwing up in distaste. But his trial was soon over and he turned his concentration to blowing spit bubbles, watching in amazement as little drops of drool landed upon the rug and disappeared, leaving a small dark patch. The site of a bright scarlet ladybird ambling across said dark patch caught and held his large blue eyes. He reached out for the colourful object but the action broke his delicate balance and he would have fallen flat on his face if Frodo had not reached out with the alacrity only a parent (or an elf perhaps) could muster and caught him.

Calimore’s bottom lip began to quiver at this injustice . . . he had, after all, only wanted to examine and perhaps taste the colourful thing. He was allowed to touch and taste other things. Why was he refused this? Thanks to his parent’s quick action he had not yet discovered the folly of his actions and saw only that he was being refused something. Recognising the change of expression Frodo gathered his son into his lap and tried to distract him, producing the little rattle that Legolas had sent. The ladybird forgotten at once, Calimore reached out and grasped it, waving it around wildly to hear it’s tinkling bells hidden safe within a strong smooth wooden shell. 

Frodo watched, smiling and gently pushing the object away when it threatened to hit a nose or chin. Calimore eventually tired of waving and brought it to his mouth, liberally coating it in baby spit within minutes. Frodo wished he knew what sort of wood it was carved from for no matter how hard it was sucked, gummed or bashed it did not seem to dent or splinter. He watched the drool sliding down its side and onto Calimore’s fist and considered the hanky . . . then changed his mind. Calimore would only be messy again in five minutes time and a little spit never did any harm. Frodo had remembered quickly enough from Pippin’s youth that babies did not stay clean for long.

Feeling a warm dampness in his lap, Frodo looked down. It seemed that parents did not stay clean for long either. When had he changed Calimore’s nappy last? He smiled ruefully at the growing stain his son had created on Frodo’s silk waistcoat and velvet breeches. He would have to do something about that, and soon. That would definitely do some harm if not tackled quickly. And he would need more than a handkerchief. Frodo folded his son into his arms and rose.

“Come on, Little Cali. Time you and I both changed. I swear that there’s more comes out of your bottom than ever goes in through your mouth.” He ended the sentence by planting a little kiss upon Calimore’s nose.

Cali crowed delightedly at the change in position, blissfully ignorant of its reason. He could see so much more of this fascinating world from up here. Dropping the rattle at once, he grabbed a fist full of his Da’s hair, pushing it into his mouth, his huge blue eyes drinking in the rapidly changing scenery as Frodo carried him back to the house and nursery. As they walked Frodo jiggled him up and down in his arms, in time to the rhyme he sang.

“PAT-A-CAKE, pat-a-cake baker’s man. So I will, master, as fast as I can; Pat it and prick it and mark it with C, Put in the oven for Cali and me. Cali and me, Cali and me. And put in the oven for Cali and me.”

By the time Frodo was half way through his second rendition Calimore was joining in . . . or at least making cooing noises and giggling, and that was close enough for his doting parent.

It would be a few months more before Calimore could have cake but mushroom soup was on today’s luncheon menu. Frodo was going to make sure that his son discovered the delights of mushrooms as soon as he was able, for a Baggins who didn’t eat mushrooms was unthinkable. 

And there were so many other things that he had yet to introduce him to. Playing tag in a meadow full of wild flowers . . . counting the stars on a warm summer evening . . . catching frogs and sticklebacks in a stream . . . scrumping for apples in an autumn orchard . . . cooking . . . reading by the fire on a winter’s evening . . . walking on a bright spring morning. They could discover the world together. And there was another new world to explore across the sea . . . one that had no evil memories and only joy. A world they could discover together.

His soul filled with the sunshine of his child’s happy giggles, Frodo strolled on to their rooms, heedless of the amused glances various elves were giving to his damp clothes.

 

THE END


End file.
